Zubat Fangs and Ditto Slime
by TheKuraning
Summary: Parallel/alternate story to STKF. The promotion from Admin to Executive came with far more trouble than Proton was ever prepared for, and his new roommate isn't being much help. Set from pre-RGBY to post-HGSS. Olympicshipping. (Proton/Petrel)
1. Promotion

Disclaimer: It's been six years, you should know I don't own Pokemon by now. C'mon, guys. Get with the program.

Forward: Six years ago, I moved three states away from home to start college. Those first two semesters were hell for me, as I had no friends or family nearby for support and my depression hit rock bottom. There were days and moments where I almost didn't make it through, and I wasn't getting help. The only thing I really had in my life at the time was the fic _Slowpoke Tails and Koffing Fumes_ , which I worked on day and night and gave me meaning enough to keep pressing on. Two years ago I uploaded the STKF finale, and one month ago I graduated from college. Looking back, STKF is the reason I'm still here today, which is a thought I've never expressed before now. I intend to leave it on my profile as long as FFNet exists, but I intend now to offer a new version of STKF since I am in a much better, much more stable time in my life. If you have read STKF before, I hope you enjoy this new rendition, and if you have not, I hope you enjoy this fic all the same. ~ Kura

* * *

"Di Mercurio."

Matori glanced up from the planner spread across her desk and indifferently eyed the admins seated across the room from her. There were three still left for today, all of whom she was relatively acquainted with. Well, to some degree, at least. Saki Tachibana was a regular to the office, being an admin with the field division. Of the three, she was sitting nearest to Matori, and was also the least irritable. She mostly kept to herself, came in mostly to drop off reports or to deliver items of high interest. She was respectful, resourceful, and efficient; moreover, she was from Viridian City, and had first worked as a trainer in Master Giovanni's gym there before being recruited into Team Rocket. Her pokemon were cared for diligently and demonstrated quite a good amount of battle prowess. If Matori had to pick anyone out of the line-up to receive the coveted title of Executive, it would probably be Tachibana.

Of course, sitting next to Tachibana was Tao Kuang. Kuang was just as regular as Tachibana, though for a much different reason. He worked under Archer, Matori knew, and his duties were mostly relegated to accounting. His pokemon were not, by any means, as well-trained as Tachibana's, but he was a hard worker. If he were to receive the promotion, it wouldn't take him long to catch up to the others. He already got along wonderfully with the twins as well, which was certainly a plus. Perhaps, if he were to be presented with the promotion, it would take just some of the pressure off of Archer's shoulders. He had been recruited in Blackthorn, though apparently hailed all the way from Olivine. Despite their differences, Kuang certainly would have been just as good of pick as Tachibana.

And then there was Lance.

Lance Di Mercurio wasn't necessarily a bad pick, per say. His pokemon—a single, low-level zubat—was not by any means comparable to even Kuang's pokemon, let alone Tachibana's. He was some awkward, scrawny kid one of the recruiters had picked up in Goldenrod a few years back, only barely old enough to even be considered an adult. Matori only rarely interacted with Lance face-to-face; more often than not, their correspondence only occurred through HQ's internal messaging system and was always so brief and to-the-point that it was bordering on impudent. He worked for the security department and specialized in correction and interrogation. If Matori had to admit one good thing about Lance, it was that he got results; his first year working he outed no less than seven traitors and managed to crack a member of InterPol badly enough to make them reveal the organization's foreknowledge of a rather important heist Team Rocket had been planning for ages. But Lance was still very crude; very unrefined. He didn't treat Team Rocket the way most of the other admins did, mostly just treated it as a means to an end. It was that quality which Matori found particularly unsavory, and she honestly couldn't fathom how he had made it this far into the interview process. Yet here he was.

When Matori had called his name, Lance's eyes shot up from the pokeball he had been fidgeting with and for a second, he pursed his lips. Matori, however, was not going to repeat herself, and stared pointedly at him until he slowly began to push himself to his feet. Light footsteps glided across the floor; she watched him as he passed her desk by. Threadbare uniform, shaggy green hair... How could anyone dare to present themselves to Master Giovanni in such a manner, she wondered. But maybe it wasn't her place to say. The analog clock above her desk _tick, tick, ticked_ on in the silence. Lance opened the heavy walnut door and disappeared inside.

Giovanni's office wasn't huge by any means, but it wasn't small, either. The floor was a charming dark hardwood, and the far wall might as well have been one giant window if such a thing had been possible. Various shelves and display cases lined the room, interspersed with a few pieces of expensive-looking art on the wall, but what took command of the room was the ornate desk in the center of the room, walnut, just like the door. Giovanni sat behind this desk in his usual crisp suit, leaning comfortably back in his seat. Lance silently trudged through the space to the comfortable armchair across from him to sit as well, Giovanni offering him a patient smile all the while.

"Welcome back, Mr. Di Mercurio," he greeted smoothly, "I expect you've been busy since our last meeting."

"Yes, Sir," Lance replied as he removed his hat, inclining his head ever so slightly, "the correction facilities' always busy this time of year. New recruits 'n all."

Giovanni let out a short chuckle and leaned forward onto his desk, steepling his fingers in front of him. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, amusement crinkling at the corners of his eyes, "keep in mind, won't you, _nothing_ happens in this organization without my hearing of it." They sat in silence for a minute, Giovanni's focus boring into Lance as the latter, meanwhile, drummed one set of fingers anxiously against the armrest of his seat. To his credit, Lance did not budge by a hair's width, and green eyes never strayed from brown. Neither man made to break this silence for a minute longer. But as always, it was never Giovanni who folded first.

"You're right," Lance agreed, though perhaps more disgruntled than he ought to have been. He turned the pokeball in his hand over once, tossed it lightly into the air, then activated the expansion mechanism and leaned forward to place it just in front of Giovanni. It was only when he took it that Lance began to explain himself.

"'Bout three weeks ago, we rooted out a Cipher shitlord bunkerin' down with some of the raw recruits," he continued, "bitch thought he could just waltz right in and take whatever he wanted, so I took out his nervous system. Not before I got that, though."

"And what's so special about this?" Giovanni prompted.

It looked like an ordinary pokeball in every way. Nothing was housed in it, at least, not anymore. Lance grimaced at the memory and had to try very hard to keep himself from rubbing his bandaged ribs. Who knew a larvitar could have caused so much damage? He'd been the only one with the balls to get close enough to put the damn thing down. And that was when the confusion had started. Laritar shouldn't have been able to cause that much damage, and that one had been 'roided up, or something. No one else seemed to have been concerned. Pokemon from Orre were weird, they'd said. Pokemon from Orre couldn't be compared to their Johto or Kanto counterparts. Lance had been the only one to notice that the pokeball, in fact, was not an ordinary pokeball.

"It's been modded," he explained, "you can tell when you open it. Chip's starting to warp in a weird way, limiter and compressor are damaged by _design_. Don't see those kinds of scratches on 'em any other way. Cipher's workin' on some weird-ass tech. Pokemon that used to live in this one was a nightmare. Big, mean, stupid. More than normal."

Giovanni did as Lance suggested, flipping the pokeball's lid open to peer inside. He let out another chuckle before reaching to hand the pokeball back, and Lance flipped it shut and pocketed it. "I hear this has been your pet project since then," Giovanni said, though he didn't wait for Lance to confirm, "burning the midnight oil a little harder than normal, eh? That's the kind of work ethic I like to see. The kind of _initiative_."

"I didn't expect to get called back," Lance admitted.

"Oh, no one did," Giovanni dismissed, "you're more frustrating than anyone has time to deal with. But I like you, Di Mercurio. I like how you get things done without needing to be told." Lance was quiet again. Giovanni took it in stride, pushed himself to his feet and motioned carelessly towards the door. "Ms. Tachibana and Mr. Kuang are wonderful, of course. Raw power, raw skill... Qualities that ought not be overlooked, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So why are you here, Mr. Di Mercurio? Why do you think I've had you brought back to me, today?"

There was a right answer there, somewhere. There always was with Giovanni, especially when Team Rocket was the matter at hand. Always a right answer, a right move, and always, _always_ consequences. Lance knew that better than most of the grunts and admins in the organization. Sometimes, you could get away with playing the idiot, and Giovanni would tell you what the right answer was. This was not one of those occurrences. Instead, he moved around his desk to lean back against it, towering over Lance's seated form as he simply waited.

"Because I'm better than them." His answer did not disappoint. Giovanni's small smile grew wide and self-satisfied.

"That's one way to put it," he agreed, "you're not content with your one job, are you? And you're not the typical sadistic meathead we use to keep our mareep in order, eh?" It was only when he snapped it up and waved it at him that Lance realized Giovanni had his file out, and he watched as his boss flipped it open and perused the papers. "A full ride to Blackthorn University's engineering program... an estranged father who worked for Silph Corp... your quaint little side project, there, from Cipher. And I hear you've been doing pokeball maintenance for grunts in the field division?"

"Need the money," Lance tried to explain, but Giovanni continued over him.

"I think you've made your interests quite clear, Mr. Di Mercurio. Your other prototypes—how many have been successful?"

For a second, Lance nearly opened his mouth to ask how Giovanni of all people knew about his hobby, the prototype pokeballs he tinkered with in his dorm for fun, but his breath caught quick in his throat. Of course Giovanni knew. Giovanni always knew. Instead, he nodded and began to rattle off his pet projects. A pokeball meant to strengthen itself in the dark. A pokeball meant to be augmented by the radiation of evolution stones. A pokeball with a stronger power source. A pokeball that could function as a TM. Every idea Lance had dreamed as a child, every half-working prototype he explained, Giovanni's glee with the situation only seemed to grow. He had been in the middle of explaining his idea for using a double feedback loop to improve the capture rate of an ultra ball when Giovanni finally cut him off.

"Mr. Kuang has been skimming off the top of Team Rocket's finances for months, now," he said, "and Ms. Tachibana recently decided a _very rare_ jewel would be better suited to her wardrobe than for any plans I or the research division may have had for it." That was it. That was all he said. He leaned across his desk and opened a drawer, pulling something out and setting it next to him on the desk, within Lance's reach. It was then Lance finally broke eye contact, stared confusedly at the handgun Giovanni had placed expectantly in front of him, and the room was yet again thick with silence.

"I don't...?" Lance began.

"You want your mother to live comfortably, don't you?"

Lance swallowed hard. Slowly, he nodded. Again, Giovanni seemed pleased.

"Then make the right decision."

Lance reached out and took the cold metal of the gun in his hand, turning it this way and that as he eyed it. Without another word, he rose to his feet and turned on his heel. Giovanni watched idly as he left the room, buffed his nails on his suit jacket's sleeve as he waited patiently. Nothing for a second. He didn't flinch as the first gunshot tore through the air, smirked as he heard the scuffle. A second gunshot rang out, and only a moment later, Lance returned, poker-faced. He handed the gun carefully back to Giovanni, then resumed his seat as if nothing had happened at all. Giovanni clapped him amicably on the shoulder and then resumed his seat behind his desk.

"You see?" he said, " _initiative_. I'll have you sign some papers, we'll reassign your residence, and then you can get fitted for a new uniform. By the end of the week, you'll have a brand-new ID card, to boot! Yes, I think you'll fit right in. A gearhead like you is exactly what I need." He fished around in his desk as he went on and on, pressed forms and forms and more forms towards Lance to sign. He felt like he'd signed twenty or thirty of them when Giovanni finally paused, pressed one more towards him, and asked what he was to be called. "New position," he explained, "we don't want anyone thinking of you as the little admin who used to be security's errand boy, do we?"

No, Lance agreed, they didn't, and he sat and thought and considered until finally, _finally_ he reached out to sign.

"Proton," he said as his pen glided across the paper, "I think... I want to be called Proton."

"Well, then, Proton," Giovanni replied, "congratulations. You've been promoted to Executive."


	2. Introductions

Disclaimer: I'm not really sure how many of these witty disclaimers I can come up with again, but rest assured, they all belong to me (unlike Pokémon!)

Things moved quickly, which was odd. Lance—Proton—he was so used to the bureaucratic bullfuckery of Team Rocket. Long lines and ten forms to fill out to use the men's room. Fifteen different hoops to jump through when all he needed was a new pair of boots. That kind of shit. But when he had been offered the promotion, when Giovanni had given him the choice and Proton had latched onto opportunity with as strong a grip he could muster, obstacles seemed to simply remove themselves from his presence as he approached him. Sure, there was still an exorbitant amount of papers he had to sign, but it was all taken care of in Giovanni's office after only minutes of talking, and then Giovanni himself had taken the forms to Matori to leave for one of the other executives. He had returned, tapped at his computer for a moment, and then offered Proton a practiced businessman's smile.

"We'll move you out of that crowded dorm," he said, and Proton merely nodded. Giovanni typed for a minute longer and then printed something out before standing and heading back towards the door. This time, he beckoned Proton on, and after a second of squirming in his seat, Proton rose and followed behind him. "Matori, be a dear and have someone process Proton's new ID card, will you? Have them apply a master security clearance and adjust his residence to these quarters." He didn't stop to talk much more than that, which Proton wasn't exactly sure was fair—Matori was currently knee-deep in trying to deal with the two dead admins cluttering her floor—but he supposed it wasn't his place to say, and Giovanni wasn't slow by any means. Proton followed him out the door and down the hall.

"I'm putting you with one of the other executives," Giovanni continued as they headed towards the elevator, "he's a bit... _difficult_ , but he's been here longer than the other two and, of course, has space to spare. He'll be able to mentor you as you settle into your new roles." Executive Archer. He was difficult. Proton grimaced as he considered the thought of living with Executive Archer, of all people, but the way Giovanni spoke of it sounded _final_ , and Proton wasn't stupid enough to protest.

"Alright," he sighed, submitting himself mentally to his fate, "lookin' forward to it, I guess." Giovanni merely laughed.

They continued on through the base until Giovanni had briefly steered him to the requisitions office, where two grunts and an admin Proton had sat with once or twice in the mess had taken his measurements before offering him two uniform designs that looked so similar Proton honestly couldn't tell the difference. He pointed to one at random and then all of a sudden Giovanni was leading him back into the hall as the grunts and admin bowed the both of them out of the room.

Giovanni continued to talk as they took the elevator and made their way, but most of it went right over Proton's head, things about protocol and the others and his new status. Mostly, he was just concerned about how it would all work, how to get people he had worked with on a daily basis to heed him, and when he broke into the conversation to awkwardly voice these thoughts, Giovanni merely shit him a bemused look.

"You'll be fine," he reassured, "remember, _initiative_. You'll be surprised how quickly they bend. Ah, we're here."

They came to an abrupt stop outside a rather plain-looking door. Proton had never been to this part of the base before; he was vaguely aware that these were dorms meant to house families that lived on-base, unlike the one he had previously lived in where so many grunts and admins were squished together in a room like canned goldeen. Even so, he had expected to be able to tell an Executive's dorm apart from the others, but he couldn't have picked this one if he tried. Giovanni rapped on the door with his knuckles, and a few minutes later the bolt clicked and the door swung open.

It wasn't Archer, though. Proton slowly raised his gaze to the top of the towering form, and apprehension hit his stomach like a brick. Executive Petrel stared back down at him indifferently from heavy-lidded black eyes. Dismissively, he instead looked to Giovanni.

"Master Giovanni," he greeted, inclining his head, "I wasn't expecting you, today. What do you need?" Giovanni's charming smile had yet to leave his face.

"Good afternoon, Petrel," he replied, "you remember when I told you we were looking for a fourth executive?" For another moment, Executive Petrel-no, just _Petrel_ , Proton had to remind himself, they were both executives, now-remained quiet, his attention flickering from Giovanni, to Proton, and then back again. He had sized him up-or at least, that was what Proton took it as. And he still didn't look very impressed. Suddenly, Proton was struck with an uncomfortable feeling that nestled into the pit of his stomach. Maybe this had been a mistake. But Giovanni didn't make mistakes, he chided himself, and to suggest as much would be _unwise._

"I wasn't expecting you to make a decision so soon," Petrel finally admitted, then nodded to Proton, "so this is the guy, huh?" Before Giovanni could answer, Proton felt his arm moving as though of its own accord, and he firmly stuck his hand out as he eyed Petrel expectantly.

"Proton," he introduced himself, "starting today, I'll be working alongside you. I suppose I'll have to trust you'll get me caught up to speed." He expected something to change in that moment, and for all he knew, maybe it had. It didn't show on Petrel's face, however, but at the very least his hand slowly extended to clasp Proton's in a powerful grip. After a second, he squeezed painfully, pressure in just the right place to send a shot of fire up his palm into his wrist, and Proton did his best not to grunt or grimace. Instead, he merely squeezed down in return, and although he wasn't sure if he was causing the same pain in any respect, that's when he saw something light behind Petrel's indifferent black eyes. Amusement, maybe? Proton wasn't sure.

"The pleasure's all mine," Petrel replied smoothly, though it sounded rehearsed. He released his deathgrip on Proton's hand, and Proton quickly withdrew, flexing his fingers as he allowed his hand to return to his side. Giovanni seemed pleased.

"Proton is going to be taking over the security division," he announced, "as he was merely a mid-level admin, before, I'd appreciate it if you could look out for him a while and maybe give him some pointers."

"Yes, Sir," Petrel readily agreed, but Giovanni wasn't done.

"He's going to be staying with you until he's proficient with his new roles and duties. Grunts will pack and bring his things over the next day or so. Accommodate him until then."

"Yes, Sir. I understand."

"Good. Behave yourself. I'll know if you cause any trouble."

"Yes, Sir."

For a moment, Giovanni idly glanced back into the dorm.

"What is it you're cooking?" he demanded, "it smells like it's coming along."

"It's just a roast. I threw it in the slow cooker this morning," Petrel admitted, "I've got a pie in the oven, too."

Giovanni squinted suspiciously. "What kind?"

"Aspear and brie." Proton awkwardly eyed the two of them as Giovanni carefully considered the situation.

"I've got a lot to finish this evening," he finally said, "send some with a runner whenever it's finished. Staff meeting on Monday, don't forget."

There wasn't much said after that. Giovanni shook Proton's hand and congratulated him one final time, and Petrel and Proton both saluted him as he took his leave. Then they went back to staring at each other. Soon, Petrel sighed and wordlessly beckoned Proton in. Proton, just as silent, obeyed. He followed Petrel inside, and they shut and locked the door behind them.

It was more of an apartment than a dorm. Immediately to his left as he walked in was the kitchenette; some counter space and cabinets with a fridge, a stove, and a microwave against the wall, while the sink stood across from it on the bar counter. The laminate turned to plush carpet there, and it opened to a cozy living space.

The far wall was dominated by a large window and a door that seemed to open onto a small balcony. A moderately-sized TV sat on a stand in front of the window, a minimalist black leather couch and glass coffee table across from it. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves, and at the left wall, a desktop computer sat nestled on a charming frosted glass desk. There seemed to be hallways opening to the left and right.

Proton began to move forward as curiosity got the better of him, but before he could take more than a step or two, Petrel's hand shot out to grab his wrist and quickly pulled him back.

"Shoes off by the door," he ordered, "no exceptions." Proton frowned. He hadn't noticed before, but Petrel was currently barefoot, his toes peeking out from under long, loose-fitting pajama pants. Slowly, he glanced down to his right and found a line of three neatly-placed shoes and boots, and mouth twisting in annoyance, he turned to kick his own boots off next to them sloppily. Petrel's expression didn't change, but he remained lingering on Proton's messy boots for a minute before pointedly staring down at him. Proton fidgeted. Soon enough, Petrel left it alone.

"I didn't have time to clean or move anything," he explained as he led Proton further in and to the little nook of a hallway on the right, "frankly, I didn't know you were coming. But this is the spare room, which I guess will be yours, for now." He pushed open the door and stepped back to allow Proton inside. The room itself was modest. There was a bed, an old dresser, and a small desk. The room was taken over by bookshelves, most of which were packed full. Petrel rubbed the back of his neck in... _some_ sort of gesture. "I'll find a new home for these over the weekend so you can use the shelves. Feel free to read anything, in the meantime."

"Thanks," Proton replied, "you don't need to, though. Not if this is temporary." Silence. Proton headed across the room to the desk and peered out the window behind it. They were at the back corner of the building, towards the outer wall of the compound. There was a bit of green, but mostly it was just straight up mountain cliffs and tall fir trees, from there. It was peaceful. Some grunts were down there smoking. He turned back to Petrel. "Thanks for lettin' me stay. I'll try not t'be a burden, or nothin'."

"Anything," Petrel immediately replied, and when Proton did not reply, he hastened to clarify, "try not to be a burden or _anything._ " Proton rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever. Still, thanks."

The silence sank back in. Something bothered him about Petrel. Maybe it was the fact that he was far too tall, or maybe it was the strange rehearsed and mechanical ways he spoke and moved, like a robot or a puppet. He was disingenuous no matter what words came out of his mouth, that was for sure. His face was pointed and narrow, thin with high cheekbones; his hair was swept back into a fluffy violet mohawk, but Proton could see black roots poking through, especially in his beard and undercut; his nose and ears stuck out a little awkwardly. But what really bothered him, Proton realized, were his eyes: black, but not indifferent like he had first thought. Just empty. Hollow. Like there wasn't even a person behind them, just rotten, dark pits. The longer he stared, the more unnerving it became. Quickly, Proton looked back to the window.

"Take off your shirt."

The demand came so suddenly that Proton could have sworn he imagined iy, but when his alarmed gaze snapped back to Petrel something made it very clear it wasn't a joke.

"'Scuse me?" he replied, and Petrel started towards him.

"You heard me, take off your shirt," he repeated. Proton slowly started in the other direction.

"Yeeeaahhh," he said, "how about _no?_ I dunno what kind of shitty game you're tryin' to play, but let's not start strippin', eh?"

"I'm not going to ask again," Petrel disagreed, "you were in my infirm last week. Three bruised ribs, one fractured. I want to see how you're healing. Take off your shirt."

Oh. That made a little more sense. Frankly, Proton had forgotten Petrel worked at the infirmary; they had dealings with each other in the past, of course. Proton remembered them, even if Petrel didn't; they had always been short and to-the-point, just Proton delivering traitors to Petrel's private office. The last time he had ever seen Petrel in the infirm had been... Huh. Yeah. It would have been last week, wouldn't it? Awkwardly, Proton peeled off his uniform shirt and stood as he waited for it to be over with. Petrel leaned forward and had to bend a little as he undid the bandages to examine Proton's ribs. Huge purple and yellowish bruises trailed across his torso from where that dumb larvitar had rammed into him. Petrel poked and prodded, and it _hurt_. He wasn't exactly gentle, and if Proton didn't know better by now, he could have sworn he caught satisfaction on Petrel's face with every pained hiss and grunt his examinations elicited from him. Just as quickly as it started, however, it was over. Petrel swiftly bandaged him back up.

"You're looking fine," he announced, "I'll check again tomorrow, but for now, just don't do anything stupid and you'll heal up in no time, alright?" He stood upright and turned, heading back out the bedroom door and presumably towards the kitchen. "Dinner's at seven. Don't be late."

And that was that.

Proton waited for a minute to make sure Petrel wasn't going to return, then flopped backwards to sprawl out along the bed. It was a little more soft than he was used to, like sleeping on a fucking marshmallow cloud, or something, but he would manage. A bed was a bed, he wasn't about to start complaining. All of a sudden, though, he was exhausted. It had been a long day, and the bed was too damn soft. Maybe... maybe a short nap wouldn't hurt.

With a mighty yawn, Proton allowed his eyes to drift shut. Slowly, he fell asleep.


	3. Butting Heads

**Disclaimer: What's in vogue? Why, it has to be DISCLAIMER!**

The door was closed when he woke up.

Proton was still wearing his uniform that morning when he found himself blearily waking. For a long moment, he was incredibly confused. He certainly wasn't in his old dorm, and the stench of nicotine hit his nose like a fucking machamp. He didn't remember having a room all to himself, either. Suddenly, the memories of the previous day came flooding back. That was right, Proton thought to himself, the promotion. Giovanni had moved him to Petrel's dorm.

He remembered vaguely laying back, half-on the bed, to rest a while before eating, though he supposed at some point he must have dozed off to sleep soundly through the night. He yawned and slowly sat up, scratching at the bandaging across his ribs as he gazed idly out the window. The soft morning sun filtered in from behind fluffy white clouds. Was it supposed to rain today? Proton began to slide to the floor and take to his feet, but grimaced as he felt the tightness and tension from sleeping in such an awkward position come to bite him in the ass. He'd have to be more careful tonight. Gently, he pressed the door open and stepped out into the apartment.

The first thing to meet him was the smell of coffee. It was strong, some kind of dark roast that was heavenly to his nose. He followed it out into the den; Petrel, also dressed in full uniform with a pair of reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, was sitting at the frosted glass desk, clicking and typing away at his computer. A stack of files-medical records?-sat on the desk next to him. He seemed engrossed in his work, didn't greet or even acknowledge him, and so Proton decided it might have been best to leave Petrel to his devices. He beelined towards the kitchen, right to the coffee pot, and stopped to inhale the scent deeply. Oh, yeah. This was the good stuff. There was even a mug already set next to the machine. Proton plucked it up and briefly peered in to see if it was clean, then carefully took the carafe to pour himself some coffee, licking his lips. Now if only he had some toast or something, this would be perfect.

" _Good morning._ "

Petrel hadn't looked away from his computer at all, but when his deep voice penetrated the quiet, Proton nearly jumped. The words had been pointed, deliberate. Normally, he would be embarrassed, maybe even apologize, but it was too early for that. He was still drinking his coffee.

"Mornin'," he replied, "sorry, you looked busy. Didn't wanna bother you."

"I can multi-task," Petrel said. Proton took another sip of his coffee and leaned back against the counter. He watched as Petrel snapped one file shut, set it in a pile to his right, then pluck another one from the tall stack next to him before methodically entering it in. "You missed dinner yesterday," he continued, "I put your leftovers in the fridge."

"Thanks. Sorry, I was pretty tired." Petrel didn't say anything. Proton supposed that was a sign to leave him alone again. He took another sip of his coffee and crossed into the den, taking a seat on the edge of the couch. It was comfortable; maybe a little bit too firm for Proton's liking, but still forgiving enough to enjoy. It was still early. There wasn't much sound from outside, yet, and it was calming. Much better than the cramped, noisy dorm Proton was used to.

It wasn't much later when Petrel snapped shut another file and then whirled his chair around, startling Proton out of relaxation as his unblinking gaze trained on him. He sat that way for a minute, staring at him, then leaned forward to speak.

"So," Petrel said, "now that you've got some caffeine in you, let's talk shop. You got direction yet for your division?"

"Uhh," Proton answered, "well, I mean, yeah. Take care of traitors, dish out punishments like usual."

"No," Petrel disagreed, "that's not what I meant." He didn't elaborate, though, despite Proton's willingness to wait for him. The worst part was, he was out of coffee. He considered abandoning the conversation altogether and getting up to pour himself another cup, but somehow Petrel's attention kept him rooted to the spot.

He fidgeted in his seat. Petrel's lips pressed into a thin line. "You don't understand what I'm talking about," he finally said.

"I told you. I'm aiming to keep Security on-track. We've been doing pretty good without an Executive, so far, I can't think of much that needs changing," Proton explained.

Frankly, the entire division ran fine on its own. Leo Decarli, an admin who had been maybe two or three levels above Proton and who had first shown him the ropes, hadn't necessarily been in charge, but had been the voice of reason when it came to deliberations. Proton had always respected that, even admired it to some degree, and he liked the product of that reasonability: strict, but fair. Maybe that was the direction Petrel was looking for. However, when he tried to articulate this idea, Petrel only seemed... disappointed, maybe?

"That's stupid," he said, "sorry, I didn't realize you got promoted by doing _pretty well_ at your job. Why _did_ you get promoted, anyways? Are you even qualified?"

"I'm qualified," Proton defended himself, though his mind briefly snapped back to Tachibana and Kuang, both of whom commanded higher positions than he, himself had. Petrel did not reply to his defense, though, and so Proton hastened to explain further. "Boss said he liked my initiative. That I got shit done."

"Yeah?" Petrel replied, "what kinda shit?"

"Productivity, I guess? I sniffed out more traitors more quickly than anyone else in the division."

Petrel suddenly snapped his fingers.

"That!" he announced. " _Now_ we're getting somewhere. We've been having some trouble with those Cipher fucks lately, haven't we? Maybe try something with that."

"What's this all about, anyways?" Proton asked, "Giovanni never asked me about all this during the interviews." Petrel practically leaped from his seat, sidling passed the coffee table and sitting perhaps a little too close next to Proton, who awkwardly tried to scoot over but found himself trapped by the armrest. Petrel leaned further in; Proton leaned away.

"You heard him yesterday, didn't you?" Petrel prompted. Before Proton could even so much as nod, he continued. "We're having a staff meeting Monday. It's going to be Master Giovanni and the four of us-you, me, the twins. Maybe Matori. _Maybe_."

"Okay," Proton said, "but what does this have to do with-?"

"You _don't_ show up to staff meetings empty-handed," Petrel cut him off, "absolutely _never_. Not unless you want Master Giovanni to be upset with you?"

And end up like Tachibana and Kuang. Proton could hear the hidden threat in the words, even if it wasn't at all subtle. He vigorously shook his head. Only an idiot would invoke Boss' wrath.

"So I should have a plan to deal with traitors," Proton concluded. Petrel clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a gentle shake, though his expression never changed. It was strange, to say the least. Hurriedly, Proton took to his feat and retreated to the kitchen to pour himself more coffee.

"You'll get the hang of all this soon enough," Petrel told him, "While we're out and about today, I'm sure some ideas will come to you."

Proton was less concerned about that and more concerned about where they were going. Petrel explained to him, more or less, that _he_ had to clock in at the infirm to work-and that he expected Proton to come with him and observe. Proton agreed without much complaint. He quickly chugged his coffee and walked alongside Petrel as they left the dorm and set on their way.

The infirm, it turned out, wasn't far. Petrel's dorm was incredibly close to the elevator, and the infirm was on the next floor down. For a minute, Proton had to envy the short commute; the correction facility was in the basement, after all, and the grunt dorms weren't exactly nearby.

On the other hand, Petrel... well, Proton thought Petrel walked faster than he apparently did. Archer and Ariana, Giovanni sometimes as well, even, they were like-well, _rockets_ , zipping all over the base like the world was about to end. Petrel was sure-footed, definitely, walked like he was someone important, and he _was_. But Proton was pretty sure he had helped a little old lady across the street not too long ago who was faster than Petrel was. It seemed deliberate, in any case: Petrel's evenly measured, slow steps had some strange meaning to them that was nearly daunting, and his hunched form and resting bitchface certainly added to his dangerous air.

Proton still had to slow down and wait for him once or twice.

The infirm wasn't really busy when Petrel finally led Proton through the sliding glass doors. There were a few grunts sitting in the waiting area looking miserable, especially one grunt in particular who was pressing a bloody cloth to one of his eyes, but no one really seemed concerned by that. Proton glanced between the grunt and Petrel. Petrel didn't lift a single damn finger. Instead, he led Proton straight to the front desk, where two receptionists sat at computers behind a desk. The room behind them opened into what looked to be shelves and shelves of medical records, though Proton was sure he caught sight of drug cabinet in there somewhere.

"Good morning, kids!" Petrel called across the front desk, "Daddy's home, so get your asses in gear before I whip them into shape. _BERNARD!_ "

As the receptionists hurried to make themselves busy and one nurse scampered off, a man with an undercut wearing red and black scrubs emerged from the depths of the records and stood at attention in front of them, snapping off a salute.

"Here and ready," the man replied, "I've had one of the grunts prep your list for today. You have two surgeries, one for an admin whose heart-"

"I don't care," Petrel cut him off, "cancel them. Something's come up." Bernard's face instantly soured.

"You can't keep doing this," he protested, "this is the second time, this is serious!"

"Look, I don't like it, either. I'd rather get it over with so I don't have to keep fucking dealing with her, but if you would _notice_ , I have a situation." Petrel jerked his head stiffly towards Proton, and Bernard, frankly, didn't seem too convinced.

" _Him?_ He's _fine_ , Adora patched him up! He doesn't need anything extra!" He paused as he eyed Proton again, then added "no offense," as an afterthought.

Petrel didn't reply. Instead, he gave Proton that expectant look of his, and Proton, frankly, didn't really understand why. Bernard continued to look between the two of them until he finally threw up his hands and turned to leave. That was when Petrel finally made his move. He lunged across the counter to grab Bernard by the back of his scrubs, and cursing under his breath, Bernard turned back.

"What did we talk about, Petrel?" he growled, "we've been over this a hundred _fucking_ times, it's impolite to-"

"Shut up," Petrel ordered, and Bernard's rant died down into quiet grumbles. He returned his expectant look to Proton. "And you. You're not going to let him talk to you like that, are you?"

 _Oh._ It occurred to Proton in that moment that Bernard's cool dismissal of him ought to have stung a little more than it did. He wasn't just an admin, anymore. He was _Executive Proton_ , and that ought to carry some measure of weight and respect, right? Except probably no one in the base besides Giovanni, Matori, and Petrel-maybe Archer and Ariana?-really knew he had been promoted. So really it wasn't a big deal, and certainly not when he compared this minor dismissal to Petrel's overt disdain towards performing what sounded to be a _pretty damn important surgery_.

"It's my first day, so I'll allow it." Proton offered Bernard a strained smile, and Bernard squinted suspiciously in return. He was, however, remarkably receptive when Proton reached out to shake his hand. "I'm Proton. I was just promoted to Executive yesterday."

"Ah," Bernard replied, "moving up in the world, I see. Still..." He turned back to Petrel as they broke apart. "I really have to ask you to reconsider. If she doesn't get her procedure soon she isn't going to last long."

"And I said I'm busy," Petrel repeated sourly, "Master Giovanni told me to mentor him, and I'm not letting some unqualified sadist into my operating room." Bernard's face fell further into a frown.

"I'm telling Sotiris," he warned, and for a second no one said anything. Petrel's eyes had widened, his gaze flickering from Bernard to the pokegear at his waist.

"You wouldn't dare."

" _Try me._ "

Petrel growled in frustration, ran one hand over his face, and then reached over the reception desk to yank a planner out of one of the receptionists' hands, flipping vigorously through it this way and that. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he passed it across to Bernard, who smugly took it and began to flip through the pages, himself.

" _Fine_ ," Petrel finally spat out, "fine, reschedule her for the graveyard shift tonight. I'll get Perry to assist. But cancel the other one. Or pass it off to Adora if she has time."

"Yes, sir," Bernard agreed, "I'll take care of that right away."

"Good." Petrel finally took a moment to observe the waiting room, and muttering under his breath, he afterwards turned back towards reception. "And somebody do something about that fucking grunt's eye!"

The infirm seemed to move mostly on its own after that. Proton watched as the grunts and admins began to move at Petrel's commands. A nurse immediately came from the back and disappeared into the back with the grunt with the wounded eye, and the receptionists soon after began calling the other grunts up one by one. It was like a well-oiled machine, Proton thought, the way they moved and performed their work. He wondered how long it took Petrel to get them to work like that, or if it had always just sort of been that way. Maybe there was a trick to it. After all, as well as the correction facility worked, they weren't nearly as smooth. Proton had to admit, he would love to see his division working like this.

He was snapped rudely from his thoughts as Petrel grabbed him painfully by the wrist and yanked him through a set of doors and down a hallway, passing by numerous examination rooms, then taking a right through another set of doors and heading by what seemed to be a large number of inpatient rooms. There was another turn and yet another set of doors somewhere, and then finally, Petrel pulled him into a room, and slammed and locked the door behind them. Proton didn't even have time to register what the room was before Petrel shoved him furiously back, making him stumble over his own feet and run into the small desk in the middle of the room.

"What the _hell_ was that?" Petrel growled through bared teeth and shoved again at Proton's shoulder, "what the _fucking hell_ was _that_?"

"What are you talking about?" Proton replied, "what did I do?"

"' _It's my first day, so I'll allow it_ ,'" Petrel mocked-in Proton's own voice, to boot. It was startling, to hear his own voice repeating what he had said, but not to hear it coming from himself, and Proton found himself frozen as he tried to process it. How? _How?_ Petrel took advantage of Proton's silence to press the issue. "I'm trying to build you up and you just shit all over the opportunities I'm trying to give you, you're making me look like a _massive tool._ "

Proton quickly shook himself off and tried to find his voice. "Whoa!" he replied, "let's get this straight, here, I didn't do _shit_! You're the one making ya look like a tool, douchebag!"

" _Excuse_ you?" Petrel snapped.

"You heard me! Bernard made an honest fuckin' mistake, I ain't gonna give him shit over it!"

It was in the nature of grunts and admins to cower beneath the Executives when they worked themselves into a rage. They were, after all, the ones who held the fates of every single lesser agent in their hands. It was a reaction so thoroughly ingrained into every Rocket from the instant they were recruited that Petrel's tight, set jaw, and flaring nostrels evoked in Proton a dire need for survival so strong that his mouth had run dry and anxious tension spread across his back. He steadied himself as best he could on the desk. It was always best to leave in these situations, but Petrel was blocking the door, and, well...

"Grow a _fucking_ spine," Petrel seethed, jabbing a finger at his chest, "if you go soft on them now they're _never_ going to learn to respect you, you little shit." Proton slapped Petrel's hand away. He wasn't an admin anymore, he reminded himself. He didn't have to bend.

"Don't push me around." Proton drew himself up, looking Petrel straight in the ege. "Ya can't fuckin' bully me like ya do with your grunts." Petrel scoffed and rolled hos eyes, but Proton wasn't having it. In an effort to reclaim the situation, he reached to push Petrel firmly out of yhe way, and to his surprise, Petrel didn't fight it. Proton took his opportunity and headed for the door.

"If this is what you call mentorin' I don't want shit to do with it," he continued, "I'm goin' back."

And still Petrel didn't try to stop him. Proton made it passed him and out of the room quite easily, though it was a little tougher finding his way back out. Eventually he managed on his own, and bidding the receptionists to keep up the good work, he left the infirm and retraced his way back to Petrel's dorm. By the time he got there, the door was actually wide-open, and some grunts were busy moving his things inside. It seemed like only good manners to help. Proton carried in the last few of the boxes they had stacked outside and officially began the tedious process of settling in and organizing his things.

It was going to be a long week.


	4. Presentation

**Disclaimer: Wherefore art thou disclaiming?**

Proton didn't really have a ton of things, to be honest. When he returned to the dorm from that bit of a whirlwind morning with Petrel to find one or two grunts moving a handful of boxes inside, he had helped them carry the rest, then thanked them and shut and locked the door after. He turned on his small pile of boxes. It had seemed like so much more in the grunt dorm. Here, though, where there was actually space...

He had spent the rest of the day trying to settle in. First, Proton had tackled the couple boxes of clothes, hung his shirts in the closet and tried to neatly fold his pants to stow in the dresser. Even then, it wasn't much, just some old civvie clothes he'd picked up at various thrift stores in the past. His uniforms seemed to have gotten lost in transit-or in this case, Proton had reasoned with himself, had likely been reclaimed.

In another box or two was a handful of VHS tapes and books, all of which Proton made room for on one of the emptier bookshelves. They barely took up a third of the space, making Petrel's collection seem like a damn library in comparison. However, it was the last couple boxes that Proton had the most fun with, and consequently, took the most time sorting. Most of it ended up near or on the desk: precision screwdrivers, loose parts, an old soldering iron that looked to have seem better days, rolls of copper wire, a grounding kit... And, of course, his pokeball prototypes.

They were all still there, which was great. More than once in the past his little projects had gone missing, and though he had never known for sure who had taken them, was smart enough to realize that most pokeballs didn't just get up and leave on their own. But all three of them were here this time, and his notes and blueprint drafts, too. He did his best to arrange his drafts flat in the desk drawers and stacked his notes next to his books. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was his.

Petrel didn't return later that night, but it was probably for the best. Proton hadn't wanted to deal with him again that day. He mostly spent the evening working on trying to decide just what to say at the staff meeting, to determine what, exactly, might be expected of him - though, frankly, without any help, it wasn't easy to do by any means. Eventually, Proton had given up and instead decided to merely relax and enjoy the last moments of his day off as best he could. He heated up the leftover pot roast Petrel had saved for him, then went and reclined into the couch and watched old sitcom reruns while he ate.

Soon, the sun set and the constant drum of activity around the base died down. It was a clear night, and Proton could even see the stars through the balcony window. How soothing, he thought to himself, how _beautiful_. Way up there in the Silver Mountains, stuck inside Rocket HQ with minimal connection to civilization... Maddening, sometimes. But the view kind of made everything worth it.

It wasn't much longer before Proton finally turned in to his room and went to sleep. The night was largely uneventful, though it was early the next morning that there was a sharp knock on his door. It woke him with a jolt, and with a groan, Proton rose from the bed and blearily made his way over to open it. Petrel stood on the other side, eyes wide and bloodshot. He was dressed in red and black scrubs, and stank of formaldehyde. Proton wanted to close the door, but before he could make any sort of excuse, Petrel shoved passed him and dropped a package on the bed.

"Runner left this for you," he explained abruptly, "get dressed and meet everyone in Master Giovanni's wing in half an hour."

"What is it?" Proton asked, but Petrel refused to answer. He was busy glancing around the room, studying Proton's things.

"You better have an iron," he warned as though he had never heard Proton in the first place, "he won't tolerate that scruffy street kid look for long." He turned on his heel and swiftly stalked out the door, but then paused and turned back, squinting. "Bring whatever notes you have," he added as an afterthought. Before Proton could get a single word in, he disappeared.

Not that Proton minded, of course. He shut and locked the door once Petrel was gone, and frowning, turned his attention to the package he had left for him. It was thick, wrapped in plain brown paper and twine, but it squished as he reached to take it. Using a small utility knife, Proton cut through the twine and then tore the paper to reveal black cloth, sleek and new. Excitement rose in his throat. It was his new uniform. What else could it be?

Carefully, he unfolded the cloth to reveal the blood-red _R_ on the chest, the fancy high collar with the gold trim. It was simple, but looked far better than the grunt and admin uniforms, and as he ran his hand across the fabric he could feel the quality was leagues better than his old one. Proton shed his undershirt in favor of quickly pulling the uniform top on, zipping it all the way up before pulling on the matching pants. For the most part, it fit like a glove. The collar on the other hand-maybe a bit _too_ high, and a bit _too_ stiff. It felt like it was choking him. Proton wasn't sure if he was into that, but he supposed that was how the uniform ought to be worn.

The rest of the uniform came together simply from what he already had. He slipped on his gloves and boots, paused in the bathroom to eye himself in the mirror and try to drag a comb through his unruly hair. When he could get it as flat and neat as possible, Proton finally gathered what few notes he had and stepped out the front door. Petrel was already long gone, which was unfortunate as Proton had yet to obtain a key for the dorm. It would probably be fine, he reasoned with himself, he might be able to get the key today. For now, he had to focus on the meeting, and so he let the door swing unceremoniously shut behind him as he zipped off down the hall and towards the elevator.

Giovanni's private wing was situated on the top floor of HQ, and while Proton was relatively familiar with the man's office-supposedly connected directly to Giovanni's bedroom, though Proton was pretty sure that was bullshit-he had never been passed the first door of the main entrance.

The door itself was the same heavy walnut that Giovanni apparently had a thing for, and it stood unassumingly in a hall a few twists and turns away from the elevator. In fact, the only indication that this particular door led anywhere important at all was the plaque labeling it simply as 'private.' Well, that and the two sentries posted outside. They were from Proton's department, of course, and he recognized them vaguely from the meetings there. He greeted them with a brief nod, which the both of them returned.

"Hey," one of the two said, "what are you doing up here? Aren't you one of those inquisitors, or something?"

"Yeah, I think we've met, before," Proton answered her, "I'm here to meet with Boss and the Executives."

"Sorry," her partner piped up, "you'll have to wait out here. No grunts or admins beyond this point."

"No, no," Proton quickly corrected, "Boss promoted me yesterday, I'm an Executive now. I'm here for a staff meeting." He waved his notebook for emphasis.

"Oh!" the first sentry exclaimed. She held out her palm to him expectantly. "Sorry, we hadn't heard. Let us check your ID this time and we'll let you through, okay?"

That seemed reasonable enough. Proton dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to get his ID for them. He stopped short, however, upon seeing the empty space where his ID _should_ have been, and his mouth twisted into a frown. Great. Just great. What was _this_ bullshit? He rarely took his ID out. so where...? His mind flashed back to the promotion, to Giovanni quickly steering him through hoops and bureaucracy and ultimately, he remembered absent-mindedly turning over his card when the boss had asked for it. Proton had been in the middle of signing something; he almost hadn't been paying attention, then.

"I don't have my new ID yet," he eventually settled on. The two sentries exchanged glances. Proton could almost see the silent conversation take place, the questions turning in their minds: did they believe him and let him in, or did they make the snap judgment, detain him, label him a potential traitor? It was a dangerous game to play. Proton didn't envy them for it; they were responsible for being the Boss' last line of defense, after all.

"We can't let you in," said the first sentry after sufficient thought, "and I'm going to only say this once, but you need to leave."

"Look, just ask Giovanni," Proton reasoned, "he'll tell you I'm allowed."

"Master Giovanni is not to be disturbed," the second sentry disagreed, "we're not here to bother him, we're here to do our jobs."

And that went on for a while. It was a little bit circular. Proton continued to insist they simply ask Giovanni's permission, and the sentries continued to deny him. He even began to suggest they ask Petrel or even Matori, but the sentries refused under the same stupid pretense. Round and round the argument went, with Proton's demands sharpening by the minute. Just when it was starting to feel like his first day would be fucked up irreparably, however, a voice suddenly spoke up behind him.

"What's going on, here? Why haven't you let him in?" It was a proper voice, words carefully spoken and clearly pronounced. It cut through the heat and tension with authority and almost immediately turned the sentries into a matching pair of blubbering messes. Proton's shoulders sagged with relief. It was Executive Archer, and for the love of all that was good and pure, he had made it with just perfect timing.

Archer wasn't an imposing man by any means; he was relatively average in height (he had a few inches on Proton, at least) and wasn't remotely built or stocky. His bright blue hair was cropped short, and his coveted white uniform was pressed and pristine. Narrow grey eyes betrayed a certain exasperation with the situation. A handful of manila folders were pressed under his arm.

"I'm waiting on my new ID," Proton explained over the sentries' fearful stutters. Archer heaved a massive sigh and rubbed his temples.

"Yes, that would about do it, wouldn't it?" he replied, then turned his attention back to the sentries. "Both of you listen to me. This is Executive... Proton?" Proton nodded, and Archer smoothly continued. "You let him through whenever he shows, or there will be consequences. Do you understand me?"

Without waiting for their answers, Archer took Proton by the shoulder and steered him between the sentries and through the heavy walnut door. In reflex, Proton shrugged it, but did not complain; Archer let him go almost immediately as the door swung shut behind them. The change was immaculate. Linoleum became expensive hardwood, and elegant crown molding decorated the walls. Paintings hung every few feet, and the lighting was much more comfortable and flattering than the harsh lighting of the rest of the base.

"Welcome to Master Giovanni's private wing," Archer announced, "do take your time to appreciate it, after all, so very few are ever allowed to lay eyes upon it. I assure you, this is the closest thing to walking among gods that you or I shall ever experience."

Proton stared. Was... that supposed to be a joke? But there was no hint of mirth in Archer's eyes, no laugh or chuckle from him at all, and so Proton found himself merely nodding. Archer didn't wait for long, though; he set off at a brisk pace down the hall. Proton quickly followed after him.

"Thanks for the help, Executive," Proton said as they walked, "it felt like they were never gonna let me in. What an impression that would have been, huh?"

"We're both Executives," Archer replied patiently, "so you can speak plainly with me, you know. But it's no problem. You're going to have to learn how to deal with that sort of situation yourself, though."

"Oh. Alright, Ex-Archer." First-name terms with the Boss' second-in-command? Well, the guys back in security were really gonna get a kick out of that. Archer led him around a corner. More paintings covered the walls. There were large, expensive vases, too, with vibrant green plants growing in them.

"Have you met either of the others, yet?" Archer asked, and Proton nodded.

"Boss set me up to bunk with Petrel." For a second, Proton could have sworn he saw Archer grimace, his nose wrinkling up, but maybe it was a trick of the light?

"Well," Archer said, "you'll meet Ariana in a minute. You know, if you ever have questions, you can certainly ask her or I."

The two of them came to a stop at the end of the hall in front of another door. Archer offered Proton a reassuring smile and held it open, motioning him inside. Proton thanked him as he entered, but he had to pause for his eyes to readjust to the dimness, and so he stepped to the side as Archer followed after him. It wasn't a huge room, but it was cozy. Conference tables were arranged in a circle in the center of the room, and there was a projector mounted to the ceiling. Petrel was already there, seated near the door and adamantly flipping through and organizing a stack of papers on the table in front of him. He hadn't changed since earlier, still in his scrubs and still positively reeking of chemicals.

"Well, well," he drawled, voice low and languid, "look what the meowth dragged in. I thought you were away on a hit this week, Archer."

"And I thought you had the decency to not show up to the staff meetings stoned out of your damn mind," Archer curtly replied, "and yet, here we are." He didn't seem too terribly concerned with it, though, as he passed Petrel entirely, beelining for a small table jammed in the corner with one of those fancy, single-serve coffee machines. Proton's eyes lit up-he had only seen them in magazines and gathering dust in the Goldenrod department store, before. He followed after Archer and waited patiently to take his turn.

"For your information, I'm on methamphetamines from a surgery," Petrel snapped, "so don't _fuck_ with me right now, asshole."

Archer never got a chance to reply, as it was that moment the door opened once more and none other than Executive Ariana entered. She muttered something under her breath that Proton didn't quite catch and paused to flick on the light; Proton bumped the coffee machine as he took his turn and panicked as it began to pour him a much-too-large cup size. Archer, fresh mug of tea in hand, took it like a man. Petrel, meanwhile, yelped and cursed, squeezing his eyes shut even as he covered them with one hand.

"Why were you all sitting like idiots in the dark?" Ariana demanded, "are any of you even ready?" She was about the same height as Archer, had the same eyes and face, but that was to be expected-they were twins, after all, and it wasn't exactly a secret. Her white uniform was just as pristine as her brother's, her heels clicking powerfully on the floor as she strode with purpose across the room to accost him. "He is _pissed_. I don't know what went wrong but he's out for blood and we are fair fucking game right now."

"Don't tell me, tell _him_ ," Archer replied as he motioned to Petrel with his mug, " _he's_ the one who decided to shoot some meth before work." He took an even sip of his tea, and Ariana bristled.

" _Petrel!_ " she growled. Petrel only groaned in reply, burying his head under his arms. Ariana swore viciously under her breath. Soon, however, she turned toward the coffee machine, herself, and then stopped in her tracks as she caught sight of Proton.

"Oh, _no_ ," she said after a long moment of abject horror in which she watched Proton frantically trying to mop up the spilled extra coffee, "he's a _teenager_. No, I am _not_ okay with this-Archer, I thought he was an _adult_ , where did Giovanni even pick him up? _Daycare?_ "

Proton, meanwhile, hissed as he scalded the side of his thumb on the fresh coffee, and quickly brought the wound to his mouth to suck on it. "I'm twenty-two!" he protested, "I'm not a kid!"

" _Ooohhhhh,_ sweetheart," Petrel crooned as he finally mustered the strength to lift his head, blinking through the pain of his hangover. His mouth was twisted up into a mocking sneer, and Proton suddenly felt an urge to just fucking lob his cup like some sort of delicious coffee grenade. That would teach him, he thought viciously, Petrel couldn't wear that damned smirk with coffee burns all over his face.

Ariana was rubbing her temples. "You, sit down and shut up," she ordered, "and Petrel, unless you're looking for trouble, I suggest you do the same. Giovanni will be here any minute."

"Whatever," Proton grumbled, "I'm _not_ a kid." He started towards the table to claim his seat. The immediate spot was obviously for the boss; the chair was leather with a tall back and looked incredibly comfortable. Deciding he did not want to sit next to Petrel, Proton headed to the next space to the right of the Boss' chair, but before he could, Archer intercepted him and pushed him gently, albeit firmly, out of the way before taking the seat, himself. Proton tried to turn towards the left spot, but Ariana had already taken it. The spot next to Petrel was all that happened to be left. Scowling, Proton trudged over to take the final spot, ignoring Petrel's unblinking stare on him as he did so.

"Nervous?" Petrel poked, eyes alight with something altogether no-good. "Baby need a pacifier? _Huh?_ Nap, maybe?"

"That's enough out of you." Giovanni had strolled through the door, allowing it to shut behind him. Ariana hadn't been exaggerating: he looked like he just lost his favorite Maserati playing cards. The other Executives immediately took to their feet, and Proton hastened to follow their lead. Giovanni plopped a planner down at his spot and paused briefly, his eyes darting around the room to each of them in turn. "Petrel," he suddenly snapped, "getting a little too familiar with your _extracurriculars?_ I'm not about to find out you've been skimming off our product, am I?"

"No, Sir," Petrel quickly answered, "it was my own personal store, Sir. I used it to perform a surgery overnight."

Giovanni's lips pursed, but eventually he merely sighed and shook his head before slowly sinking into his chair. Once he was settled, he gestured vaguely with one hand, and the others sat, with Proton again following suit. No one moved or even dared to breathe as Giovanni began shuffling through his planner and notes. It was only when he finally looked up and turned an expectant eye on Archer that anything happened.

"Sir," Archer said, inclining his head politely, "if we are ready to begin, I have the information you requested, as well as the final numbers from administration." Giovanni motioned him on, and Archer jumped to his feet. He scrabbled with his own stacks of papers for a minute before pushing a few across the table for Giovanni to peruse, who took them in hand and idly began shuffling through them.

"To begin with, as I am sure you are already aware, you've lost the bid on the office building in Goldenrod," Archer continued. The others kept their head down as he expanded upon who had outbid them, what issues he had faced in attempting to even put one bid in, and it felt as though the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. Giovanni's hard stare was enough to freeze a fresh coffee, Proton mused, and so just like Ariana and Petrel, he too averted his gaze.

But soon Archer moved on, discussing bids they had actually won, buildings that could now be renovated and put to work for one of apparently many of Giovanni's shell companies or even for Team Rocket itself. It was a lot to cover-zoning permits and construction and a bunch of boring things Proton was pretty sure wouldn't have anything to do with him.

"And finally, the budget," Archer eventually began to conclude, "unfortunately, we've been set back, and I was unable to balance a final budget. I'm requesting another two weeks to sort through the last of it." Giovanni pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I don't understand," he forced out, "you've had plenty of time. You were already finished by this time last year. I need it _today._ "

"I understand," Archer tentatively replied, "however, due to... _circumstances_...," his eyes flickered briefly to Proton, "...well, I no longer have a suitable lieutenant to take Kuang's workload. I've been having to do it myself when I could, but the bids required a lot of attention-"

"The bids you _lost_ me, you mean," Giovanni snapped, hand slamming down onto the table.

"Well-yes, but only _some_ of them-"

" _I don't. Want. Excuses._ " Everything was quiet.

"Three days," Archer murmured, lowering his head as he slowly sunk back into his seat. Giovanni nodded in approval.

"Better," he agreed, "but I don't think I need to remind you what's going to happen if you don't deliver." Archer did not reply. Giovanni leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. He nodded to Ariana, who passed a stack of papers of her own towards Giovanni.

"Recruitment rates are up," she announced, "we have a new group of scientists coming in from Blackthorne-a bunch of university students, of course, but once they're properly trained, they'll fit right in." Giovanni remained quiet as Ariana continued to go over the different recruitment groups, nodding approvingly with every figure she mentioned. Soon she began discussing something about their solo compounds, the girls there and the happy clients and so on and so forth. It sounded like they were raking in a lot of cash.

"Good," Giovanni said, "that's good news. Finally, I was dying for a bit of that today. Can you have full figure reports with breakdowns on my desk by the end of the day?"

"Of course, Giovanni," Ariana answered. Giovanni thanked her and turned his attention to Petrel.

"You," he said, "are you sober enough to be coherent?"

"Yeah, I'll try," Petrel sheepishly replied. He pushed his whole stack of notes across the table. Giovanni did not seem enthused by the stack. "Good news is, we've been able to circulate some of the inpatients back out to work. Infirm is half-empty for the first time in months. We've had a high amount of successful surgeries, lately, although unfortunately we recently lost a high-level admin on the table."

"How recently?" Giovanni asked wearily, though it seemed Petrel didn't even have the decency to even _pretend_ to be ashamed.

"More recently than you would have liked," he answered, and again Giovanni pinched the bridge of his nose. Proton watched as the boss took a few deep breaths before looking back up at him.

"And you don't think," he said, dangerously calm, "the fact you were high as a goddamn _kite_ had anything to do with it?"

"I'm not admitting why it happened, just that it happened," Petrel replied evenly, "on the other hand, we have new product to move and I found three new buyers in the region alone. Five if you're willing to distribute from the Tiksi base."

"Right," Giovanni said, "I'll look over your reports later. Send Bernard to my office after this. I need to have a chat with him."

"Yes, Master Giovanni."

And then suddenly all eyes were on Proton. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks as Giovanni and others stared at him, and he knew they were all sizing him up. Him and his paltry little two sheets of notes. It would be okay, right? He was new, after all. Giovanni wouldn't expect him to have big reports like the other three. _Right?_

"Well?" Giovanni prompted him, "we're waiting."

"Uh-yeah, yes, Sir," Proton stammered out. Inwardly, he cursed himself. "I... I have here, uh, my plans for the security department."

"Spit them out, then."

Proton took a deep breath and pushed all two of his sheets of paper across the table.

"My main concern right now is Cipher," he announced, "in the last month alone, we found three Cipher moles in the engineering department, and another one in espionage. What I want to do is to increase the number of security cameras, grow security's manpower by at least twenty recruits, and double the amount of shifts so we have the time and the force to weed them out."

"How much is this going to cost me?" Giovanni pressed. Proton eyed the twin papers for a second before leaning forward again and pointing to one.

"Not as much as you'd think," he replied, "the cameras will be the biggest expense, but as for the double shifts, I would recommend reducing the cost by giving them a 100P raise, calculating the total wages for a single shift, and offering it as a daily flat-rate. Then, of course, we would change them to the double shifts. You would actually save money."

Giovanni smirked. Probably a good sign. "You've really thought this through, haven't you? I'm impressed. Once the budget has been finalized I'll send you figures for your departments, and you can give me a more complete and accurate proposal then."

"Um, sorry," Proton said, "I think I heard you wrong. You-I thought you said departments."

"That's what I said," Giovanni confirmed, "you have domain over Security and Engineering, of course. Now, do you have reports for Engineering?"

"Uhh," Proton intelligently replied, "I, uh, wasn't aware. That I was also executive for Engineering." He looked helplessly to Petrel just as Giovanni's attention turned to him as well. Petrel, glancing between the two of them, shrugged.

"I was gonna tell him," he defended to Giovanni, "but your new little bitch boy here stormed out on me while I was mentoring him."

"No!" Proton interjected, jabbing a finger at Petrel, " _no_ , you don't get to play that!" His gaze snapped back to Giovanni. "He was trying to make me bully his admin for mistaking me as a grunt."

"I don't care what happened," Giovanni replied, "I expected more from you. Next time, keep your morals to yourself and obey him; Petrel is preparing you to stand on your own."

Proton wanted to wipe the dumb smirk off Petrel's face the moment it was there, but instead he sank miserably into his seat as Giovanni returned his attention to Archer and Ariana. Not before dismissing he and Petrel, though. Proton remained in his seat for just a second as Petrel stood next to him and made for the door, however, it wasn't long before he got up and followed him out.

"You didn't do half-bad on your own," Petrel said as he lead Proton down the hallways and back out of the private wing, "I thought you weren't going to show up with anything at all, so good job, I guess." When Proton didn't reply, he continued. "I kind of want to go take a nap, but you need your ID, right? It should probably be finished by now."

The silence was deafening as they walked. Proton couldn't help but fume; maybe his face would get stuck like this, he mused, maybe he would just be scowling perpetually for all eternity. Or maybe if he ditched Petrel and found something better to do, it would go away. He probably should have made a plan for actually checking in on Security, anyways.

"You know, I could get used to this, if you're always this quiet," Petrel eventually piped up, "I was worried you would be one of those chatty kinds, but clearly I was wrong."

"Just shut ya fuckin' mouth," Proton grumbled, "I don't wanna talk to you." Petrel's brow raised high over his eyes.

"The fuck's _your_ problem?" he replied, "here I am trying to play nice, meanwhile you're acting lime you got a bunch of fucking krabby in your pants..."

Proton stopped in his tracks. "You threw me under the fuckin' bus!" he seethed, and Petrel merely stared. "You were supposed to show me what to do, but you fucked around instead and now _I'm_ the one on the hook for it!"

" _Look,_ sweetheart," Petrel snapped, "I'm not here to hold your hand, I'm here to make sure you don't make the _rest_ _of us_ look bad. You don't need my help? _Fine_." He shrugged and turned on his heels, hunching in on himself as he stalked off down the hall. "Get your shit yourself, but don't come crawling back to me when none of your grunts listen to you!"

Proton watched him go, fuming as he struggled to think of a good come back, but before he could get in another word, Petrel had disappeared around the corner. Whatever. He was all talk, no game, and Proton didn't need his help. He'd figure it all out on his own. He hadn't been promoted for no reason, after all... _right?_ And with those thoughts in mind, Proton set back off the way he had been going, first yo retrieve his new ID and then... Then, he was finally off to work.

"What an ass," he muttered.


	5. The First Day

**Disclaimer:** **A yawn is a gathering of slowpoke it's canon now.**

 **A/N: Just as a note, I'm currently in the process of moving to a new house, and between that and starting my second degree, I don't have as much time as I would like to write. There's gonna be some pretty long gaps between chapters until maybe December-ish. Just remember to set up story alert for this fic if you want to be notified the instant a new chapter comes out! :D**

The administrative offices were bustling with activity, as usual. In the past, Proton had always made a habit of staying as far away from them as possible; he hated dealing with the lines, with the paperwork, and especially with the people, not to mention how long it took to get a single damn thing done. Despite it being so early in the morning, there was already a long line of grunts in front of the desk, easily twenty or more, and all of them looked just about ready to murder someone. Proton was stuck behind all of them. It really wasn't a good day.

The administrative offices were bland, for lack of a better word. The walls were grey, the laminate floor was grey, the desks and chairs were grey, and hell, even the uniforms of the administration grunts were a dark grey, only shades lighter than the usual black of the rest of Team Rocket. The sole bit of color in the room were the sad-looking ferns in the corners, and even those were starting to turn a little dry and grey. Proton wished he were literally anywhere else.

The view wasn't the only monotony, of course. The line wasn't really moving. Whatever the grunts at the front of the line needed, it wasn't simple-that, or they were just making it more difficult than it needed to be, because once Proton took his place at the end, time slowed to a crawl. Minutes passed, marked not by a clock but by the increase in the amount of angry and dejected mutters that came from the grunts ahead of him. The fact that the line wasn't moving was starting to make him anxious. Proton began rocking on his feet. And time marched on. He checked his watch. He stared at one of the sad ferns as it seemed to wilt just a little bit more. A handful of grunts entered at the same time and queued up behind him. None of counters freed up, but someone sneezed. Instead of offering any common platitudes, one of the grunts in front of them turned around and growled at them to shut the fuck up. Another typical day in Administration. Slowly, Proton began to zone out.

He thought long and hard about the staff meeting, that morning. Had it really been so bad, he wondered? After all, Giovanni had bitched Archer and Petrel out pretty hard. Maybe he hadn't done as well as Ariana, but he still had been better than them, right? Giovanni had been, well, maybe not _impressed_ , but at least content with Proton's notes for the Security department. And really, if Giovanni had wanted anything more from him, maybe he ought to have mentioned the fact that Proton was supposed to be taking charge of Engineering earlier. The Boss already seemed to be aware of Petrel's difficult personality, so honestly, he should have said something. So it wasn't like it was the end of the world, right? Maybe if he could just get down there, talk to the guys in Engineering and see what they had to say about it all, he could write something up, drop it by Giovanni's office later... Yeah, that would work...

The line still hadn't moved.

"Proton? What are you doing, here?"

It took a moment for Proton to remember his own (albeit new) name, and when he finally turned it was to see Archer standing just a little behind him, even more papers than before stacked high in his arms. The rest of the grunts were keeping their heads down, and maybe that was smart; Archer looked frustrated to no end.

"Hey, Ex-Archer," Proton quickly corrected himself, "long time no see, huh?"

Archer was wholly unamused. "What are you doing?" he repeated, and Proton shrugged and motioned vaguely to the line stretching out ahead of him.

"I need to pick up my new ID," he explained. Archer rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You haven't learned a thing, you idiot," he berated wearily. He motioned Proton on with a jerk of his head and lead him passed the line straight to the counter. He didn't seem to notice the way the grunts looked up, stared and watched as they went by, but Proton certainly did. Now some of those grunts looked like they wanted to murder _him_.

"Move," Archer ordered as they stepped up to one of the counters, and the grunt who was there reluctantly stepped aside, eyeing Proton sourly. For the second time that day, Archer introduced him. "This is Executive Proton," he told the grunt behind the counter, "his time is valuable; attend to him before the rest of them."

"Thanks," Proton said as Archer zipped behind the desks. He didn't reply; he disappeared through a door labeled _Resources_ with a disgruntled look on his face, and didn't come back out. Proton decided not to dwell too much on it, and instead turned his attention to the grunt behind the counter.

"I'm here to pick up my ID," he explained, "I was told it's supposed to be ready by now."

"Yes... _Executive_ ," the grunt answered, "let me get someone to check on that." The grunt behind the counter turned and left through the same door Archer had. Silence had overtaken the room, and it was deafening; while the other administration receptionists tapped away at their computers and quietly assisted the two or three grunts who were still having their needs met, everyone waiting was still busy staring at Proton. He wished an aggron would just burst through the wall and eat him alive. It would be ten times less painful and awkward as being so acutely aware of the attention he was receiving.

"So," the grunt Archer had displaced finally said, "Executive, huh? I didn't realize Boss was looking to hire preschoolers."

A couple of the grunts waiting in line began cracking up. Proton only stared. The displaced grunt said no more.

Only a few seconds later, the receptionist came back out, holding in their hands a laminated ID card, which they offered carefully to Proton. He took it just as carefully from them and observed it thoroughly to make sure the information was correct.

 _103958_

 _Executive Proton_

 _Security Engineering Head_

 _Master Clearance_

 _Dorm 445_

Beside the information was his photo. His hair stuck up in every direction, and he was still wearing his Admin uniform. Maybe he would get them to update his picture another day. Slipping his ID securely into his wallet, Proton thanked the receptionist and then turned on his heel to leave the office. He heard them begin to whisper furiously behind his back before the door even began to swing shut. He tried not to let it bother him. Maybe it was just kind of a one-time sort of thing. Yeah. At least he wouldn't have to worry about that kind of treatment where he was going.

Hustling away from the Administration offices, Proton found comfort in hurrying down familiar hallways, eventually coming back out onto his usual route towards the corrections facilities. He took the stairs instead of one of the elevators, and it felt good to be able to move. Maybe it was the coffee he had earlier, but he found he couldn't bear the thought of having to keep still again.

The corrections facilities were, of course, in the basement, and that meant a lot of stairs. This far into the morning it seemed like most everyone had already began their jobs for the day, and the way was mostly clear, quiet, and empty. Even when Proton finally arrived, stepped from harsh fluorescent lighting to the dark and dingy hallways of the Security department, it was quiet, unnervingly so; usually there were always a couple patrols or grunts hurrying from one room to another, but this time, there was nothing and no one. Odd.

Proton didn't pay it too much mind, of course; instead he pressed on, tried to decide what his initial course of action for the day would be, who he ought to speak with first. He was about to pass through the secured doors to the cell blocks when he felt a hand grab him by the shoulder, and he wheeled around to break the contact, readily throwing his fists up. Leo Decarli stared back at him, anxiously making a placating motion in return.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, it's okay!" he said, "you're late, where've you been? What's with the get-up?"

"I had a meeting this morning," Proton replied, slowly lowering his fists. Decarli sighed exasperatedly; he looked stressed out, Proton thought. Had he really been worried that much?

Decarli was both taller and older than him, maybe in his early-to-mid thirties. Overall, he was relatively unremarkable. Brown hair, hazel eyes, one of those faces you could have seen anywhere but never would be able to pick out of a crowd. He had good eyes and good ears: he always seemed to know the word around base without having to expressly chase it down. Decarli would be someone good at snooping out those goddamn Cipher traitors, Proton found himself thinking.

"Well, you're _lucky_ ," Decarli stressed, "c'mon, we're behind. I got word this morning the new Executive was going to show up today. I don't think we're ready, but..." He trailed off as he shrugged and grabbed Proton again by the shoulder to pull him off down the hallway. "Well, what can you do, you know? We're as good as we're ever going to get."

"It's not such a big deal," Proton disagreed, though inwardly he was _touched_ , to be honest. It was nice that Decarli, at least, seemed to be taking this whole Executive thing seriously, and from the sounds of it, the rest of them probably were, too. All it would take at this point was a quick little speech, the announcement of their new direction, and then a nice long chat with the high-ranking admins to get the department all under control.

"Are you kidding?" Decarli replied, "it's a _huge_ deal. Everyone should be here for the first day. Everything's about to _change_."

"Well, let's hope everything works out, huh?"

"Yeah, you're telling me, kid!"

The break room hadn't been too far from where they had started, and Proton eagerly followed Decarli inside. Everyone really was there-every high-ranking admin, at least. He took notice of the corrections admins first, considering he was forced to work with all of them nearly every single day. Ray Carillo and Ashley Forhan were chatting quietly by the water cooler, while seated at one of the tall cafe tables was Jozef Peng, whose leg was bouncing incessantly as he chewed on the end of a pen, staring blankly at a stack of paperwork. Kira Heim, meanwhile, was sitting on the old, rickety couch in the middle of the room, discussing something with Desta and Shufen from the observations facilities that Proton couldn't quite make out. There were a few more admins, of course, all of them with at least a decade on him and all of them he vaguely recognized, but he had to admit-it was difficult to keep track of everyone in the department. He supposed he would have to try harder in the future.

Carillo was the first of all of them to notice Decarli and Proton had entered, and of course, Forhan right after him. "Oh, good," he breathed, visibly relieved, "you found the kid. We were starting to get antsy."

"This looks like everyone," Decarli agreed, "we should be ready as soon as he gets here."

"I wonder what kind of person he is," Forhan mused, "I mean, the Executives have had some weird names, but what sort of name is 'Proton,' anyways?"

"He's going to be a hardass," Peng deadpanned, slowly looking up from his unfinished papers, "the only good thing about this department until now was the fact we didn't have an official Executive at the head. They're fucking slave-drivers."

They didn't know it was him. Proton watched on as the others chimed in with their predictions and fears with the sudden realization that no one had been told. Giovanni hadn't sent word to the Security Department, and no one realized that they were, in fact, in the presence of an executive at that very moment. He almost wanted to laugh.

"Well, whoever he is and whatever he's like," Decarli eventually said, huffing as he peered at his watch, "we might as well scatter and make ourselves useful. He's late."

"No," Proton finally piped up. Everyone looked at him. This seemed to be the theme for the day, and he rocked on his feet. They were all so _dense_. It was a little embarrassing.

"What do you mean, 'no?'" Ashley asked, "he was supposed to be here, like, ten minutes ago."

"I was," he replied simply. They kept staring at him like a fucking yawn of slowpoke. Maybe dense didn't begin to cover it; Proton decided he may as well spell it out. "I was promoted over the weekend. I'm Executive Proton."

"You're shitting me," Carillo was the first to finally speak up, "you're shitting me, they gave some scrawny little shit like _you_ the Executive position? What the _literal_ hell?"

Proton felt his jaw stiffen. "I have my new ID, if you want proof," he offered, and pulled out his wallet to show the card off as Carillo immediately beelined towards him. The others actually followed suit. It was Decarli who first got a good look, seeing as how he had been standing next to him the whole time, and his reaction was one Proton was far happier about.

"Well, look at you!" Decarli crowed, "you really did get it! Man, I knew you were something special when you were first assigned here, but I never imagined _this!_ "

"Hey, lemme see, too!" Forhan called, butting Decarli out of the way. She let slip a laugh almost immediately as she laid eyes on it. "Oh wow, I forgot how stupid your ID photo was, you poor little jerk."

"Hey, watch your mouth," Peng warned, "you're talking to the Executive now, missy. You don't wanna be on his bad side when he finally snaps, do you?"

"Oh, stop being so paranoid, idiot," Heim joined in, "Executive or not, it's still just Lance." He wasn't sure whether or not to be offended by that. Still, everyone besides Carillo seemed to be... relatively accepting, though not altogether overjoyed by the news. Except Decarli, of course. He just stood there beaming like he had just watched his kid get married, or something. It was a little weird. Proton couldn't help but appreciate it, though. Maybe it would get the others the rest of the way on board.

"Anyways," Proton said above the others' chattering, "now that's been settled, can we all have a quick chat about work?"

"You got it, chief," Decarli agreed, and eagerly he motioned for the others to quiet down. It was such a smooth transition, Proton mused - they definitely did listen to Decarli. Yes, he would be a good choice for a lieutenant.

"So," Proton continued as soon as everyone had calmed down, "Boss asked me to provide our department with a new direction. I know we all been tired of those Cipher fucks."

"Hear, hear!" Peng agreed, and the corners of Proton's mouth twitched.

"Shut ya mouth until I'm done, man," he teased, and the others laughed. "Well, anyways, we're gonna be spendin' more time lookin' for 'em. You guys get me?"

"More time like overtime?" Carillo prodded.

"Yeah," Proton agreed, "exactly like that. And I can't promise shit, but... look, let's just say a little pidgey told me there might be a raise in everyone's future."

Of course, the chatter immediately broke out, the exchanging of excited glances. That was the moment-he had them, Proton was sure of that. He probably even had Peng, because after all, how bad would it be having an Executive around if he could get them some extra cash just like that? Petrel was wrong. They were his friends. Of course they would respect him for this.

"That's all I got for today," Proton eventually dismissed them all, "everyone just keep doing what you've been doing. It'll be smooth sailing from here on out." As everyone began to shuffle towards the door, Decarli once more approached him. He was still positively beaming, looking so much more at ease than he had earlier.

"Hey, Lance," he said, "how 'bout you, me, and the crew go out for a few drinks after shift, tonight?"

"Yeah, man," Proton agreed, "that'd be great."

"Awesome. We'll make a whole thing of it!" Decarli laughed. He snapped off a playful salute and winked, then turned on his heel and followed the last of the other few admins out the door. Proton waited for a minute in the newfound silence of the room. He did, of course, have work to do, too, but between this and his new position heading the Engineering department... Well, maybe it would be a good idea to check in on them, first.

That's exactly what he did. Proton quietly left the security department and made his way purposefully up the stairs to one of the upper floors. The Engineering department, upon his arrival, was already running like a well-oiled machine. He met the head admin there and had been pleasantly surprised that they had, in fact, already been informed of who he was and what his new position happened to be. The introduction there seemed to go over even more smoothly than it had downstairs, and the upper-level engineering admins were very receptive to his presence.

They spent their time briefing Proton, catching him up to speed on a few more important projects they were working on, including some involving TM programming, among other things, and explaining to him their grievances and desires for their work. He even had time to stop by and meet the grunts whose specific interests happened to be working with pokeballs, and while none of them were really involved in pokeball engineering, (though considering they didn't seem to have the proper equipment to do so, maybe it was for the best,) Proton spent a good deal of time discussing pokeball programming with them, impressing them with his own home-grown knowledge of the subject.

Maybe, he thought as he discussed one of the grunt's recent attempts to remove a trainer code from a stolen pokeball, it was a good thing Giovanni had placed him in charge, here. The experience was enlightening, and more to the point, Proton had always been aching for a chance to meet like-minded pokeball geeks. One day, he would have to stay and talk with them properly, but this time he had to eventually cut and run back to the corrections facilities. When he returned, it was to find a runner waiting for him with a massive stack of paper in her arms.

"Executive Proton?" the runner asked, and Proton nodded. She strode forward and tipped the stack into his grip. "Executive Archer asked for you to complete and return these before the end of the week." Before he could protest, she was gone. Still, while the stack was huge, there was plenty of time to get it done. Proton hauled the stack back to the break room, found a pen, and set to work. That was how he spent the rest of his day, reading, sorting, stacking, signing, whatever it was Archer wanted him to do. It was actually a little exhausting. He still hadn't finished by the end of shift, though his steady work had put a bit of a dent into the stack. If he kept up at this rate, he would be finished in no time. He took the papers along with him as he took the long walk back to Petrel's dorm.

The light in the kitchen was on when he entered, but Petrel wasn't there. The TV was even on, playing the news at a reasonable volume. Proton carelessly kicked off his uniform boots as he entered and set his papers down on the entry table nearby before heading into the den to grab the remote. As he approached, however, he stopped short as he found Petrel laying stretched out along the black leather couch, still in his scrubs as he munched away at a bowl of popcorn he held in his lap.

"Hey," Petrel greeted, his eyes never straying from his program, "I'm about to keep score, wanna watch?"

"Keep score?" Proton repeated.

"Yeah. They're gonna do crime reports in a few minutes. I like watching them try to figure out what we did and what they didn't."

"Uh-huh." Proton quirked an eyebrow. "Well, don't let me get in the way. I'm going out." Petrel paused in his munching and tore his attention from the screen, letting it rest instead on Proton.

"Oh?" he prodded, "where to?"

"That bar we own," Proton replied, "the guys decided to celebrate my promotion. It'll probably last late." Petrel frowned and took a few seconds before finally he nodded.

"Alright," he said, "sounds good." He turned his head back towards the TV. Proton decided to leave him to his own devices.

It didn't take Proton long to get ready. He didn't own much in the way of anything, and clothes tended to fall under that umbrella. He swapped his uniform shirt for an old, threadbare hoodie, and his uniform pants for a faded pair of tattered jeans. His hair, unfortunately, still refused to be tamed - and Proton snapped another comb trying. Out of sheer frustration, he grabbed his old grunt hat and jammed it on his head. It didn't necessarily fix the problem, but it did look... well, _mildly_ better. He had made it back to the front door and was in the process of lacing up his sneakers when he heard Petrel's heavy footsteps, and when he looked up he almost had to do a double take.

Petrel was standing there in a casual suit. A really _nice_ , _fitted_ casual suit, actually. It all seemed neatly pressed, dark charcoal colors that somehow just suited him, and for a second Proton could have sworn he saw suspenders peaking out from under the suit jacket. His hair was slicked back neatly, and before Proton could register what, exactly, was happening, Petrel was slipping into a pair of sensible oxfords next to him. Was there, like... some fancy Executive get-together Proton didn't know about, or something?

"Well, look at you," he mused, "and where are you off to, dressed so nicely?"

"I thought you said we were going to that bar," Petrel replied, and Proton paused.

Oh. _Ohhhh._

"Oh," he said, "no, that wasn't..."

"Then where are we going?" Petrel asked.

"No, no, I meant the bar - that _I'm_ going to the bar," Proton answered, "with my crew. You can't just invite yourself like that."

"I didn't," Petrel asserted, "you asked me."

They stared at each other for a long, long while. Petrel's face was still set in its resting bitchmode. Proton didn't understand. He hadn't said a damn word about inviting Petrel along, but Petrel was _serious_. Was it even worth the trouble?

"Alright," Proton gave in, "yeah, whatever, tag along. It's a long walk to town, though."

Wordlessly, Petrel rummaged in his pocket and withdrew a set of keys, which he dangled in the air for Proton to see. "I'll drive," he said. It clearly wasn't meant to be an offer, and without waiting for Proton's reply, Petrel let himself out into the hallways. Proton quickly finished tying his shows and followed after him, cursing under his breath.

The walk downstairs took longer since he had to wait for Petrel's slow ass, and the further along they went the more Proton found himself wondering how someone with such seemingly high expectations for his departments could move so languidly. Like molasses, or something. Hot damn. Proton, though on the slight and small side, felt like a dodrio racing a big, fat, slimy muk. When they finally _did_ make it downstairs and out into the mountain air, however, Petrel took point and gained a bit of speed in his step. He led Proton to a small garage off to the side of the grounds and ushered him in before turning on the lights. Proton gazed around in awe. There were a ton of cars-fancy cars, muscle cars, supercars. A lot of Italian names. Cars that Proton could never have imagined having, riding in, or even looking at in his wildest of dreams.

"Whose _are_ these?" spilled out of his mouth, and he anxiously edged up to a black Lamborghini, eyeing it from a safe distance so his breath didn't set off the alarm or ruin the paint or something. He turned back towards Petrel with wide eyes. "Are these all _yours_?"

Petrel was grinning from ear to ear, and he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "No," he said, "but they're nice, huh? This is Master Giovanni's garage. He has a few empty spaces left that he allows us to use. C'mon."

Proton followed closely behind as Petrel led him passed more Italian cars, a couple German cars, and even an American car, if Proton was recognizing any of these correctly. At the end where the empty spaces were, there were a couple modest, relatively modern cars parked - and next to them, a much, much older car. Proton wasn't quite sure what kind of car it was, exactly, but Petrel unlocked the driver side door and then reached to grab the soft top roof, releasing something and then yanking the top back.

"This is my car!" he announced proudly as he worked, "she's a '66 Eldorado! My old man was able to get her for me on the cheap." He slid into the driver's seat and started the car, the engine rumbling to life. Then, with his awkward and mechanical smile, he patted the passenger's seat. Proton didn't need telling twice. He jumped in next to him, and before long, they had hit the open road.

The sun had been setting as they left and it was dark before they even got to the city limits, but that frankly didn't matter much to Proton at the time. There was something wild and relaxing about zipping off with the top down, the cool wind rushing through his hair and numbing his cheeks. The ride was smooth and enjoyable, and when they finally arrived in town and Petrel had found a place to park, Proton was almost sorry that the trip was over for the time being. Once Petrel had shifted into neutral and thrown the parking break, the two hopped out and Proton helped him put the roof up before they crossed the street to the bar.

The bar itself was a dark, seedy little place on the bad side of town, and if they had been anyone else besides high-ranking members of Team Rocket, they probably ought to have done the smart thing and leave before trouble found them. The bar was, however, owned by a man who was a member of Team Rocket, and because of that it had become a more favorite watering hole for the team drunks. It typically didn't matter if tongues got a little loose, here, because there typically wasn't anyone to blab secrets to. When they stepped through the doors, Proton's crew had already arrived, and they spotted them immediately. Decarli, Carillo, Peng, Forhan, and Heim were sitting at a large corner booth, each with their own various drinks, and were chatting amicably with each other. As Proton and Petrel approached, Decarli waved them over.

"Hey, Lance," he greeted, then paused and eyed Petrel awkwardly before adding "Executive," as seemingly an afterthought. The rest of them got pretty quiet, too, their conversation about who would win in a fight between a mutant gyarados and a zombie ursaring breaking off without much ado as they each eyed Petrel with similar distaste. Proton tried to ignore it.

"Hey, guys," he replied, sliding into the booth next to Decarli, "sorry we're late."

"Well," Forhan said evenly, "we weren't expecting you to bring Executive Petrel, that's for sure."

"Yeah," Proton agreed, "neither was I." And silence descended. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Decarli took a sip of his beer. Peng made a point of staring at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Carillo and Forhan exchanged looks while Heim just kind of zoned out. Proton rubbed his temples. Petrel looked between everyone expectantly before settling back into his seat. Proton nearly leaped as a waitress approached.

"Can I get you boys anything?" she offered.

"Get me an old fashioned," he immediately ground out.

"I see you're very assertive when it comes to your drinks," Petrel drawled, "now if only I could get you behave like that on the job. Vodka for me, sweetheart, the hardest you have." Proton felt his ears burning, but he didn't say any more as the waitress returned to the bar.

"Soooo," Decarli began once they'd all stewed in the discomfort long enough, "long day today, huh? But we're here for a happy occasion, after all!"

"Yeah," Carillo agreed, "good job on the promotion, twerp. Who'd you have to blow for this one?"

" _Ha, ha_ ," Proton bit back sarcastically, "funny. Interview process was hell."

"How many of you were there?" Heim asked.

"I dunno, about seven or eight?"

"So you really had your work cut out for you," Peng mused, "can't imagine the kind of agents you were up against."

Proton almost told him just what kind, but as he remembered Peng's earlier disgust concerning Executives, it occurred to him that maybe the finer points of the interview process were better left unrepeated. Particularly the last call-back. Instead, as the waitress bustled back over, Proton took his drink and raised it in solidarity.

"It was the freshest of all hells," he announced, "and I'm fuckin' glad it's over. Cheers." Decarli and Forhan whooped their agreement, and the five of them tossed back as much of their drinks as they could. Even Petrel raised his glass a little and took a sip of his vodka. He didn't say much about it, and maybe that was for the best, because once the toast was complete, the subject changed to their usual favorite: bitching about work. Forhan was the one who started, that night, complaining and complaining about a defector she was currently trying to crack who had supposedly stolen and hidden some very important documents from the research department. The story went as usual, with her forking over all the gorey details of the various body parts she removed from his person, and as a collective the group began to throw out various sadistic little ideas of their own in contest to best each other. Eventually Decarli won by suggesting the removal of the defector's teeth and the round moved on. They went like that for a while, and it was relaxing. Petrel did not join in, of course, he just sat there quietly drinking and then eventually munching on the appetizers the group ordered, and that was probably why Proton was able to have such a good time.

He was maybe on his third drink when Forhan suddenly looked at her watch and turned towards Heim. "Hey, did you still want to see that movie?" she asked, and Heim, who was probably the most sober of them all, nodded.

"Yeah, let's do it," she agreed, then turned back to the rest of the table. "We're going to see the new _Ditto Cop_ , anyone wanna come?"

"Hell yeah," Peng immediately agreed, "I want popcorn! I'll come!"

"How about the rest of you?" Forhan prompted as Heim and Peng began to take to their feet. Carillo shook his head.

"Nah," he said, "never really liked _Ditto Cop_. Too cheesy for me." Decarli, who was completely hammered with his head laying under his arms on the table, groaned.

"I'm _so_ drunk," he whined, "I want - I wanna - I gotta _sleep_ , man."

"I'll go see _Ditto Cop_ ," Petrel volunteered. He began to rise steadily from his seat, but as he did so, Proton saw the other three exchange panicked glances.

"Sorry," Forhan suddenly blurted out, "I forgot, we only have a few tickets. We're gonna go." She flashed Proton an apologetic look. "See you later, Lance." Proton sighed as he watched Forhan and Heim take off with Peng right behind them, leaving a small stack of cash in their wake.

"Well," Carillo sighed as they left and Petrel grudgingly sat back down, "guess that leaves four." His eyes shot to Decarli, and then with a grimace, he corrected himself. "Three. What a lightweight."

"Sad part is, this is an _improvement_ ," Proton agreed, shaking his head. He took another sip of his cocktail as Carillo prodded gently at Decarli, earning another miserable whine.

"Speaking of improvement," Carillo replied, shooting him a sidelong glance, "what kind of trick did you do to get yourself on that promotion list?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's fine, you don't have to play dumb. I won't tell anyone, swear it. I'm just... _curious_."

"Curious about _what?_ " Carillo's brow suddenly furrowed into a scowl.

"Don't fucking mess with me, kid. You and I both know you're barely admin material to begin with. How'd a scrawny little punk like you get to be an executive when _I've_ worked here twice as long?"

It was like a slap to the face. Proton knew that the others weren't altogether thrilled with his promotion (except maybe Decarli) but even so he thought they at least would have all agreed he had some measure of potential. After all, if Giovanni had seen it, why shouldn't they? But it was as Carillo was staring him down that Proton realized he may have been far too forgiving in his assumptions. This was stupid. He didn't have to justify himself, not to Carillo of all people. He was an executive for a reason, dammit.

"Well," he heard himself sneer, "I guess Boss prefers quality over quantity." And he knew as soon as he said it that he had made the situation worse. Carillo's scowl deepened and he leaned, low and threatening, over the table.

"What are you saying, punk?" he growled.

"What am _I_ saying? _You're_ the one who can't fucking accept it!" Proton slammed one fist on the table, though Carillo wasn't fazed. Petrel took another long sip of his drink.

"It should have been me," Carillo seethed. He shoved himself to his feet and dropped his share of cash on the table, turning to leave. Maybe the smart thing to do would have been to let him go. Nothing would have happened, and maybe they would have been able to work it out. Maybe Carillo would come to accept the fact that Proton had gotten the promotion. But Proton was buzzed - drunk? - and while those thoughts swirled briefly around in his mind, what Carillo said next put an end to that bullshit. "You're just some ghetto rat. You weren't even worth being an admin."

Proton didn't remember too much after that. Time passed in a blur, but the one thing he remembered quite distinctly was the feeling of his fist impacting Carillo's face and the heavy _thump_ as he lost his balance and fell to the floor. Proton did not stop there.

" _I'm - the - fucking - Executive!_ " He punctuated each word by viciously slamming his sneaker into Carillo's side, over and over, and he would have just kept on going if a hand on his shoulder didn't yank him back. Carillo's stomach revolted against the onslaught, and as he retched onto the floor with shoulders heaving, Proton whirled around in a fury to see just who had the gall to stop him. It turned out to be Petrel, drink still securely in his other hand and amusement flickering behind his rotten eyes.

"I think that's enough," he said smoothly, "why don't you take a step back and finish your drink before we're thrown out?"

Proton's eyes darted around the bar. For the first time, he noticed just how obscenely quiet it was, how all eyes were on them. There were a couple grunts he recognized as being recent security recruits, and oh, did they look absolutely terrified. Proton took a few deep breaths as he continued to stew in his anger, then turned back to the table and threw back the rest of his drink as Petrel had suggested, slamming the glass forcefully back down when it was finished.

"You," he snapped, turning his attention back to Carillo, "pick up the rest of the tab. I'm taking Decarli home." With a bit of effort, as Decarli was certainly larger than himself, Proton managed to lift him off his seat and began dragging his mostly-limp body to the door.

"Cheers!" Petrel raised his glass and downed it, then carefully stepped around Carillo as he followed Proton out. "The rest of you mind your own business."

It was late and starting to get cold. Proton dragged Decarli through a harsh and numbing wind back towards Petrel's car, face screwed up in righteous anger. Fuck Carillo. Fuck all of them. If they thought he was going to be soft just because they knew him as Lance, they had another thing coming. He hefted Decarli up to try and get a better grip on him (causing him to whine again in the process) and paused to look up at the night sky. Clouds were starting to roll in. Maybe they ought to hurry.

Of course, what Petrel forgot to remind him of was the fact that his car was a two-seater. They both puzzled over this for a long while until Petrel suggested they simply stuff Decarli into the trunk. Frankly, Proton didn't think it would work, but was bemusedly proven wrong only minutes later as Petrel demonstrated the most efficient method of cramming a human body into a car. Proton considered asking how often Petrel had to do exactly that, but from the smug look on his face the answer would have probably been too many. Leaving the top up, the two slid into their respective seats, and Petrel started the car. They drove off without much ado.

They were almost half-way back when Petrel finally spoke. "That was pretty impressive," he said, "a little on the tantrum-y side, but a good start."

"You were right," Proton huffed in reply. He yanked his hat off and ran one hand back through his hair, absentmindedly attempting to tame it once more. The humidity was murdering it. "They're not going to respect me. You were right."

"Don't worry." Petrel glanced at him and offered a smile Proton was sure was meant to be comforting, but simply seemed alien. "With a bit of refining, they'll learn to be afraid of you, and you won't have any more problems like that."

Helplessly, Proton turned in full to Petrel, brow furrowed as he studied him. Rain began to drizzle outside, pattering gently against the windshield.

"What do I do?" he asked him.

"Just trust me," Petrel soothed, "Trust me, and _listen_. Soon this will be like second nature to you. You're on your way. Tomorrow, everything changes."

Proton bit his lip. Yeah. Everything _would_ change tomorrow, huh? Especially once Carillo told the others what happened. But... when he looked at Petrel, when he really sat there and _studied_ him when the moon occasionally rose above the clouds and cast his face in soft, eerie light, it wasn't like there was nothing there. Maybe it was the booze talking, but for a moment, Proton could see more than a plastic machine; Petrel was relaxed. Confident. And Proton wanted that. He wanted to be just like that so very, very badly. And so he let out a long sigh and settled back into his seat, deciding to watch the rain catch them and pour harder and harder.

"Alright," he agreed, "yeah. Alright. I trust you. I trust you, Petrel."

And by the way Petrel's mouth stretched into its practiced and disconcerting toothy grin, Proton knew that was the first right decision he had made all day.


	6. Stepping Up

**Disclaimer: I ask you, are you not disclaimed?**

Proton was much too hung over the next morning to really care. The morning sun was like a spear lobbed into his eyes, and his head felt like he'd been mule-kicked by a rapidash. All in all, perhaps not the best way to wake up on a work day, but surely a sign that the night prior was _amazing_. Was it a smart trade off? Not by a long shot. He was in a bad mood and would probably pick a fight or two by the end of the day. As it were, his first point of action had been to abuse his poor little alarm clock, slapping it off so hard he was surprised it hadn't actually shattered. He was sloppy with his routine, simply shimmying into his pants and buckling his belt before shuffling out into the dorm and over to the kitchenette, groping blindly for the coffee pot.

"Well, now," came Petrel's deep voice from behind him as he did his best to pour himself a mug, "you don't seem very presentable, Mr. Executive." Proton grumbled, lip curling in a half-sneer as he took a long sip. Petrel laughed. What a dick. Slowly, Proton turned on the spot, squinting across the room at Petrel as he studied him. He had that damnable smirk on his face. Proton briefly entertained the thought of throwing something at him.

"What do you want?" he spat out, causing Petrel's smirk to only grow.

"Do you even remember last night?" Petrel prodded. He crossed the room, resting his cheek on his fist as he leaned forward over the kitchen bar. His eyes flickered over Proton's form, slowly down then back up. Another short bubble of laughter left him. "From the state of you, probably not."

"I'm not in the mood," Proton growled, "what do you _want?_ "

"Do you have a plan for how you're going to handle them?"

Proton ran a hand through his tangled mess of hair. Flashes of the previous night replayed over and over in his head. He remembered some of the others leaving. He vaguely remembered getting into an argument with Carillo. What he especially remembered was stuffing Decarli's body into the trunk of Petrel's car, and the moment he did, he swore viciously.

"Did we let him out?" he demanded, "my friend, Decarli, he was in your trunk, did we-?"

"Alright, let's talk about that, instead," Petrel readily agreed. "No, we did not let him out right away. You threw up in Giovanni's garage, told a Grunt you met the prime minister, and then you passed out. I carried you to bed and watched an hour and a half of sitcoms until I remembered, and then I carried him up, too."

"Oh, _gods_." Proton buried his face in one hand. "Oh, no, I kind of _remember_ that. I thought... did I really say he used to babysit me?"

"You did," Petrel confirmed. Proton groaned.

"Where did Decarli end up?" he asked when he finally stopped mentally slapping himself. Petrel shrugged. That was not a good sign.

"I didn't know what to do with him, so I dumped him in a corner somewhere," he dismissed, "it's probably fine. But can we get to your plan?"

"Well _clearly_ , I'm going to apologize."

"After all he said?"

"What are you talking about?"

It was that moment Petrel's smile dropped from his face. Finally. Maybe now Proton would get some damn answers from him. His intense stare bore into Proton, and slowly, he stood erect, head tilting as his hands dropped to his sides. It was a strange transformation to make, but Proton felt he could recognize it for what it was: Petrel was taking him seriously, now.

"You really don't remember," Petrel drawled. No, that wasn't seriousness, was it? Condescension, maybe, or even incredulousness? It was difficult to tell what Petrel meant, what he was thinking - even when his expression changed, his eyes were the same, always betraying some dark void of apathy. When he paused, Proton shook his head. Petrel eyed him for a long moment, squinting, then sighed and shrugged. "You tried to beat the shit out of that arrogant cocksucker friend of yours. He questioned your authority. It was funny to watch."

"Carillo?" The gears slowly began turning in Proton's mind. Carillo was arrogant, and he hadn't been altogether pleased when Proton had announced the news of his promotion. And he _did_ vaguely remember arguing with Carillo, but beating him? That sounded a bit far. Maybe Petrel was lying. But would there even be a point to that? What could he possibly gain? And if it was the truth, Proton couldn't just ignore it, could he? Part of being in a position of power included the trust of one's subordinates. ...Maybe someone else had a better handle on the details, or at the very least, could confirm whether or not that had actually happened.

"Oh," Proton finally said, "I dunno, I guess I'll just have to wing it." Petrel did not seem impressed.

" _Right_ ," he said, " _wing it_. You let me know how that works out for you, sweetheart, okay?" That, of course, was _certainly_ condescending, and if Proton hadn't already been well-aware that Petrel was a dick, he would have been offended. But at the very least, Petrel didn't press the issue farther. Instead, he meandered his way around the bar, practically leaning across Proton to secure his own mug of coffee. Without much room to move, Proton allowed it, sipping again at his own mug.

"Carillo and I, we got our differences," he said, "but he ain't completely unreasonable, especially not sober. I don't think it's a big deal."

"You're such a fucking bleeding heart," Petrel scoffed, "how'd a hippie like you end up in corrections?"

"Keep talkin' to me like that and maybe you'll see," Proton warned. He did his best to edge around Petrel and his refusal to respect the phenomenon of personal space as he finished off his mug, setting it neatly in the sink before heading back towards his room to get ready for the day. There was a lot to do, after all. Besides checking in with Carillo and making sure Decarli survived the previous night, he still had to finish that stack of papers for Archer, and if he could, finally make it to his cell block and see which idiot grunts needed straightening out.

Conversation seemingly over, Proton returned to the guest room and resumed getting ready for the day. His uniform shirt, he discovered, was the epitome of stifling. He certainly remembered the collar being a little too high and a little too stiff, but in his hung-over state Proton realized that, as he began to zip it up, his uniform was _choking_ him. Bile threatened to rise up his throat, and almost just as quickly he pulled the zipper back down, lower and lower until it finally came to a rest a bit below his collarbone. Clearly, it was not uniform code-friendly whatsoever, but at least that way he wasn't pushing his luck against projectile vomiting all over the place. His hair, while unruly at the best of times, was just plain throwing a fit that day. Being in no mood to sort it out, Proton again settled for simply jamming his hat over it. Maybe, he mused, that would throw everyone off over the bags under his eyes, anyways. Satisfied for the day, he grabbed his paperwork for Archer and set off.

Petrel had migrated away from the kitchen when Proton finally returned. He was reclined along the couch, reading through a sizable stack of papers of his own as he nursed his coffee in his free hand. The stack was much larger than Proton's - probably more medical files, he mused. There was a lot to go into maintaining the HQ's healthcare. Proton decided to let him be, and paused only to pull on his boots as he began to leave.

"Don't play nice," Petrel called as Proton opened the door, "the more you let them get away with, the harder it's going to be for you." Proton didn't answer. He simply stepped out into the hall, and closed the door behind him.

When he had taken the long walk downstairs, Proton was surprised to find another runner waiting for him outside the corrections facilities. The grunt nodded politely to him and held out a stack of papers double of what Proton already had in his hands. Grimacing, Proton took the stack and waved him off. So much for getting to his cell block, today. Instead, he went to the break room and took a seat at the high table next to the water cooler, arranging the papers neatly in front of him and setting dutifully to work. The others slowly began to trickle in for their morning rituals, greeting each other, getting waters or coffee, stashing lunches in the fridge. A few lower-level admins came and congratulated him on the promotion - news traveled quickly, down there.

Forhan and Heim were the first of Proton's crew to show their face. He had looked up as he heard the door open and waved when he saw them. The two had exchanged glances with each other, briefly uncertain, but Heim had shrugged and approached him, and Forhan followed suit.

"Hey, Lance," Heim greeted,

"Mornin', guys," Proton replied, "can you believe this shit? Look." He pointed to his stacks. "It was like half this size this morning."

"I don't envy you one bit," Forhan agreed, "but, hey, about last night? Sorry we ditched you."

"Yeah," chimed Heim, "Executive Petrel is a little... well, you know."

"Strange?" Proton suggested, wry smirk overcoming his lips. Heim and Forhan laughed awkwardly. "Don't worry, I get it. I didn't even invite him, he just came anyways."

The three looked round as the door opened again, and Peng entered. He paused upon seeing them, his eyes lingering distastefully on Proton. Then, without another word, he took a wide berth around them to tuck his sad little brown lunch sack in the fridge.

"What's your problem?" Forhan asked. Peng did not mince his words.

"Him," he said, nodding towards Proton, "hotshot punched out Ray last night and took his lunch money, apparently." Eyes wide, Forhan and Heim turned back to Proton.

"No, you didn't," Heim said, then paused as she got a good look at Proton's expression. "Oh my god, you did!" she exclaimed after a minute.

Proton dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "That ain't how it happened," he defended, "we were both drunk, Carillo started talkin' shit."

"Carillo's always talking shit," Forhan agreed with a grimace, "it was a matter of time before _someone_ hit him."

" _Yeeaaaaah,_ " Peng grumbled, "not exactly the _best_ quality in someone who's supposed to be our Executive, though."

"Look, I was gonna apologize," Proton protested, "he hasn't come in yet, today."

"Well of course not!" Peng scoffed incredulously as he made his wide berth once more towards the door, "Executive bashes your face in, you gonna go seek him out? _I_ certainly wouldn't want to." He opened the door to leave, then paused and turned to stare Proton dead in the eye. "That's why I'm out before you do the same damn thing to me. I'll see you around, girls."

Proton felt himself deflating as he watched the door swing shut behind Peng. What did he mean by that? Just out of the break room, or out of their little group altogether? Proton liked Peng. He was paranoid, and it was _usually_ a laugh and a half. Also, he baked - and Proton wasn't sure if any of their parties would be a party again without one of Peng's famous sponge cakes. He sighed heavily to himself and dragged fingertips down his face before face-planting into the table.

"Dammit," he groaned, "now three people are pissed with me."

"Who else did you piss off?" Forhan leaned in, eyes bright at the prospect of more gossip, and reluctantly, Proton raised his head and told Forhan and Heim of what had become of Decarli, and his resulting absence. They didn't seem to take it as seriously as Proton, the two of them dissolving into fits of laughter at the idea of Decarli being stuffed, half-conscious, into the trunk of a car. However delighted they were listening to Proton's glum stories, they eventually had to leave, walking together down to the admin blocks, and Proton was left trying to work on his unyielding stack of paperwork. Try, of course, was the key word; admins were in and out all morning.

Again, news traveled fast. Many of the admins behaved the same as Peng, coming into the break room, eying Proton wearily, and staying as far away from him as they could while they quickly got snacks or whatever else they needed. Around noon, Shufen and Desta came in hand-in-hand, and whispered quietly to each other as they pulled out the lunches Shufen had made them. Proton couldn't understand the language they were whispering in, but he was able to pick out his own name, so he was pretty sure he got the general idea. Instead of sitting together to eat on the couch as usual, the two simply heated their lunches up and left, and that was probably the worst part: Proton loved Chinese food, and Shufen was one of the best cooks he knew. Smelling the remnants of their leftovers without being able to beg for a bite was the worst torture of all. Everything and everyone was a distraction. He wasn't getting anything done. No one wanted anything to do with him. Everything was taurosshit.

"Hey, Lance. How's it going?" Proton's eyes shot up from his work, desperate for some kind of positive social interaction, and upon seeing who it was in front of him, his shoulders sagged in relief.

"Decarli!" he breathed, "oh, shit, you're okay!" Decarli offered him an amused smile as he took the seat across from him, cracking open one of those shitty bento boxes from the mess.

"Yeah, all things considered, I'm okay. A little hung over, but y'know." He broke apart the disposable chopsticks from inside his bento and went to town on it, avoiding the questionable-looking sushi in favor of attacking his chicken directly. "How about you?" he asked around mouthfuls, "how's your day been going?"

Proton motioned blandly to his papers, and Decarli nodded in understanding. "On top of all this shit, everyone's pissed off at me for what happened with Carillo," he griped, "and I ain't gettin' shit done. I dunno what to do, man."

"You need an office," Decarli suggested, "don't the other executives have offices?" Proton shrugged.

"I dunno. Probably."

Petrel, at least, had an office. It was on the fourth floor, near the elevators. Proton had been outside of it once, a long time ago. He had been fresh off the street, then, just a grunt, and one of the high-ranking admins had sent him to deliver a prisoner there. He hadn't been inside. He hadn't even dealt with Petrel, directly. But the fact remained, Petrel definitely had an office. Archer probably did, too, though Proton had never been to it. He was the boss's second, after all, and for the amount of paperwork he seemed to process, it would be stupid to think he didn't have one. Ariana, too - if the others had their own offices, then Ariana was bound to have her own. That settled it. Decarli was right; Proton needed his own office.

"I'll run by administration later and see if I can't call dibs on a room somewhere," Proton decided. Decarli nodded encouragingly.

"In the meantime," he added, leaning forward conspiratorially, "what are you going to do about Carillo?" Proton groaned.

"Shit, I dunno," he sighed, "what do you think?"

"I'd say apologize, but that's just me."

"Petrel thinks I shouldn't do a damn thing." Decarli shrugged.

"Well, I guess he _has_ been doing this a while," he mused, "and Carillo can get pretty mouthy sometimes. Maybe sleep on it." Proton huffed and reached across the table to take one of the dubious sushi pieces, throwing it back before he had a chance to study it.

"Everyone's giving me that look," he groused, "you know? Like they think I ain't worth shit, let alone this promotion. Carillo, Peng, Desta, _everyone._ "

"I'm not gonna lie to you," Decarli replied, "but you're young, Lance. You've only been here a few years, nowhere near as long as some of the rest of us."

Yeah. That was true. Proton only knew of maybe a handful of admins who had joined after himself, and they were all fresh promotions, just now being trained. Carillo had been there for years longer. Maybe three, maybe four. But even considering this, Proton frowned. If he had been there so long, he should have known better than some of the others not to mouth off to an Executive, no matter who it was. That was how - well, that was how you ended up like the poor simps caged down here.

"They can just suck it up," he finally decided, "if they were in any way capable of this promotion, Boss would have chosen one of them."

"That's the spirit," Decarli agreed, "they'll warm up to the idea in no time, kid."

"Hey, Decarli, listen," Proton said, "if this is gonna stick, you gotta start callin' me Proton."

Decarli frowned. "You're gonna have to remind me now and again," he admitted, "shit, kid, I've known you since you were a squirrelly little rookie."

"Quit with the 'kid' crap, too," Proton added, "I hate to admit it, but if you start doin' it, everyone else will, too."

"Yeah, alright. What ever you say, _Executive_." Decarli shook his head, then grinned. He really was a good sport. When Proton had finished helping Decarli demolish his lunch, the latter stood to throw out his trash before he turned on the spot, hands on his hips, and stared at him hard. Then, without a word, he strode forward and scooped the stacks of paper up into his arms. "What do you say we pick out your office?" he asked, "I'll carry your shit, if you want." With a grunt, Proton sprang to his feet and adjusted his hat.

"I say let's do it," he replied, "I was thinkin' something near my block."

"I get that," Decarli agreed, "I think there's some storage rooms no one's using, might be big enough."

"Oh, yeah, those." Proton nodded. "Let's check 'em out."

With Proton in the lead, the two left the break room and began down the hallway. As they turned to walk further into the facilities, however, one of the lower-ranking admins—a tall foreigner by the name of Pirouz, whom Proton had once assisted in breaking a member of a now-defunct rival gang in Celadon—knocked into Proton as he turned a corner, sending the both of them sprawling to the ground. Decarli barely had time to hold the papers out of the way before they knocked those flying, too. When the confusion and dizziness settled down, Proton slowly pushed himself to his feet, dusting himself off, and reached down to help Pirouz up, too. Something about Pirouz was off. Usually calm and purposeful, his eyes were darting this way and that, and he was twitchy.

"Sorry," he apologized, and started to back away. He bumped back into the wall and jumped a little, then quickly tried to straighten himself.

"You alright, Pir?" Proton asked, and Pirouz nodded vigorously.

"I'm great," he replied, edging slowly away, "yeah, I'm fine. My, uh, squad mates were telling those, um, dumb ghost stories again, and I'm... I'm not really a fan."

Proton frowned. "Oh," he said carefully, "well, just be careful, yeah?"

"Yeah," Pirouz agreed, "I'll see you." He skirted off down the hall, glancing over his shoulder back at them every so often, then finally disappeared around a corner. Proton turned back to Decarli, who wore a similar expression to his own.

"Did Pir seem off to you, too?" Proton asked him, and Decarli nodded solemnly.

"Yeah, that was definitely weird," he answered. And weird, of course, was what kept their entire department in business. They waited, rooted to their spots, for a second longer, until Proton was sure Pirouz had made it just far enough, then he jerked his head for Decarli to follow him and started off purposefully the same way. It wasn't too hard to follow Pirouz; he was nervous, and nervous made him clumsy. They followed the sounds of his heavy steps and erratic starts over every little noise further and further into the underbelly of HQ, until Proton realized they were surrounded by rooms of files, blueprints, and the ledgers used by the security department. Being a low-ranking admin, Pirouz had no business being there on his own. Again, Proton and Decarli exchanged glances.

When they turned a corner the final time, it was to find the door of one of the filing rooms wide open, lights on. Sounds of rifling through papers and cabinets floated out of the room. Proton quietly motioned Decarli towards the door, and the two began creeping towards the room. Before they could reach inside, however, the noises abruptly stopped. A drawer shut. The light clicked off. Proton and Decarli quickly threw themselves back against the wall. Pirouz exited into the hallway.

There was a file, seal opened, with the word "CLASSIFIED" stamped across it in bold red stencil in his hands.

"Whatcha got there?" Proton found himself asking, and again, Pirouz jumped, whirling around with his wide, terrified eyes.

"O-oh!" he said, "hello again!" His eyes darted down to the file in his hands, then back up to Proton. "Say, Lance, you... you know we got a new Executive down here, right?"

Decarli opened his mouth to correct Pirouz, but Proton raised a hand to silence him. "We heard," he said, "what about him?" Pirouz's eyes brightened.

"Well, he asked me to pick up this file for him!" he exclaimed, "and he wanted it right away, so I should probably..." He began to back away. Proton smiled humorlessly.

"I don't remember talking to you since Boss promoted me," he said, "and I sure as _shit_ don't remember asking you for classified files." Pirouz blanched.

In slow motion, Proton watched him spin on his heel and bolt. Before he could tell Decarli to lock the room, his legs began to move on their own, and in a blur, he was tearing off down the halls after Pirouz. Pirouz was, of course, much taller than him, long-legged, and much faster. Proton chased him out of the corrections facilities, leaving Peng and Forhan, confused, in the dust along the way somewhere. He took the stairs two at a time to try and close in on his mark, and as he neared, he lunged, snagging Pirouz by the sleeve. His grip was slippery, however, and as Pirouz twisted to continue up the stairs, Proton fumbled and his mark escaped by just a hair.

" _Fuck!_ " he swore aloud. He pressed himself harder as he followed Pirouz out onto the ground floor, a burst of speed carrying him to push through throngs of grunts as his mark dodged and weaved his way towards the front doors. "Out of the way! _Out of the goddamn way! We've got a goddamn traitor, out of the_ **fucking** _way!"_

Grunts and admins alike parted before him, and just as Pirouz was reaching to push the doors open and run out into the mountains, Proton leaped and tackled into his middle, the both of them falling hard onto the linoleum floor. Proton quickly righted himself and moved to sit on Pirouz's back, straddling him as he reached to yank his arms round behind him to cuff. Pirouz regained his senses quickly and began struggling, nearly throwing Proton off of him as he freed his arms.

"I got you!" Someone slid to their knees next to the both of them, and Proton looked up to see Carillo, bruised with one black eye, was next to him, struggling alongside to help Proton detain Pirouz.

"Took you long enough," Proton teased as they worked.

"Well, you know," Carillo replied, "you beat me pretty good last night, didn't want to step on your toes."

Proton snorted as Pirouz jerked, and he kneed him in the back. He was about to snap off a quippy comeback when Pirouz jerked again, and he heard the telltale _click_ and crackle of energy that was the hallmark of an opening pokeball. Proton threw himself off Pirouz and allowed Carillo to take the reigns as he rolled to his feet and spun around.

Grunts had parted, clinging to the walls as a hulking hitmonlee stood before him, its huge muscles rippling as it leered him down with unbridled fury. There was something wrong with this hitmonlee, Proton realized. It was too big. It was too angry. Something was charging the air around it with a murderous vibe, and briefly, Proton's mind turned back to the larvitar he had handled and the strange pokeball it had come from. He reached into his back pocket and flipped out his favorite butterfly knife, steeling himself as the hitmonlee took a ready stance.

"Everyone... _keep... back.._.," he said, and the grunts pushed themselves back to the walls to keep out of the pokemon's way. Suddenly, the hitmonlee lunged, leaping into the air as it kicked at him, and Proton quickly jumped out of the way. The hitmonlee kept going and crashed through the glass of one of the exit doors before landing with a painful _crunch_ on the concrete outside, crying out in pain. It had a limp as it turned, one of its legs bent at a slightly odd angle, but despite its apparent pain the unbridled fury never left its eyes.

Proton ran after it, ducking as it swung a roundhouse kick at his face, and jumping back as it followed up with a much more wobbly one at his stomach. He wasn't going to get anywhere like this, he thought viciously just before he grumbled out a "fuck it!" and charged, knife poised to strike. The hitmonlee swung its broken leg again, this time catching Proton in the side of his already bruised ribs, and he cursed and swore and stumbled as another _crack_ resounded between them. With all his strength, however, he grabbed hold of the hitmonlee's broken leg and _squeezed_ , grinning in sick satisfaction as it cried out and began to buckle under the pain. Then, with one swift movement, Proton stabbed his knife into its chest, slicing at cutting as dark blood began to seep from its wounds and the hitmonlee steadily sank down and down and down, crying and struggling all the way, until finally Proton shoved it to the ground and the barely-conscious hitmonlee twitched as it bled out on the concrete.

Breathing heavily, Proton did his best to shake the blood off of his glove, then turned and stepped back through the broken glass door to where Carillo had finally detained Pirouz. Hitmonlee's now empty, useless pokeball laid on the floor nearby, and as it glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights, Proton snatched it up in his hand, eyeing it for a good long minute. Pocketing it, he spun on his feet and sucker-punched Pirouz in the stomach.

"You fucking piece of shit!" he hissed, just loud enough for everyone to hear as they watched with wide eyes and bated breath, "you _really_ thought you could pull one over on me like that? _Me_ " He kneed him in the crotch for good effort, smirking as Pirouz cried out and tried to double over. Proton snapped up the recovered file from Carillo's hand and turned to face the crowd of grunts. Carillo wisely kept his mouth shut.

"You see this?" Proton continued, shouting as he waved the file in the air for everyone to see. "This is a set of classified blueprints from downstairs! This ignorant fucker thought he could _steal it_ and sell it off to the highest bidder, and we ain't havin' _none_ of that shit! I'm _Executive-_ **fuckin'-** _Proton_ , and if I find out any of you idiots are thinkin' of sellin' the rest of us out, we're gonna have a nice little chat about it _downstairs_." Slowly, he cast his eyes around at all the different faces of his newly-made subordinates, felt the raw power of his position crackle inside of him, and drew himself up taller, prouder. "Believe me," he went on, "if you're planning on turnin', we _will_ find out. Carillo!"

Carillo, who for once was not complaining, stood at attention when Proton addressed him, even though he looked like he would rather die than do so. "Yeah?" he answered. Proton decoded he would take what he could get.

"Lock this waste of a human down in my block," he ordered, "let's see of his tongue gets loose without food and water."

"Yeah, gotcha." Carillo nodded casually to him - fuck, why couldn't it have been Decarli? - and dragged Pirouz off down the hall and back towards the stairs. Proton huffed, breathing out as much of the tension as he could, before he turned back to see everyone still staring at him.

"Well?" he said to them all, "get back to ya fuckin' work, idiots."

They all moved at once, scrambling to get back to whatever they had been doing before, and Proton watched on in satisfaction as they did so. Maybe this wasn't going to be so difficult, after all.

He snagged a maintenance grunt by the collar and dragged him outside to the unmoving carcass of the hitmonlee, demanding the grunt alert someone and then clean it up. With that taken care of, he made his way carefully to the elevator and took it up to the fourth floor, where he kept it together just long enough to make it away from prying eyes before he let himself collapse, briefly, onto a wall, cursing viciously under his breath as he took deep breaths and tried to will himself passed the pain, pressing one hand to his ribs where the hitmonlee had kicked him. When he could, he continued down the hallway until he came to Petrel's dorm, and he paused only to unlock it with a swipe of his key card before he slinked inside and let the door close itself behind him.

Petrel was still on the couch where Proton had left him that morning, hunched over his coffee table and holding his head with one hand as he worked. He didn't look over when Proton entered, and at first didn't even greet him, preferring to finish filling out his form and moving it to his completed stack before he said a word.

"You're back early," he said evenly, "I didn't think your shift ended until late."

"Petrel," Proton gasped as he steadied himself on the kitchenette counter, "shit, Petrel, _help_."

Petrel perked up at that, turning around with his brow furrowed. When he saw the state Proton was in, he hopped to his feet and navigated around the couch and back to the door.

"What?" he asked, "what's up?" Proton yanked his uniform shirt out from his pants and hoisted it all up, passed the bandaging so Petrel could clearly see the rib starting to poke through. Petrel's eyes, in turn, widened. " _Shit_. C'mon, over here, sit down." Proton let Petrel guide him back to the couch, sitting him down at the edge before he threw his hat to the side and Petrel helped him pull his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing that to the side as well. Then, without further ado, Petrel set to work, removing the old bandaging and doing his best to straighten out the broken rib before it could puncture Proton's skin.

"What the hell _happened_ " Petrel asked as he worked, and Proton grimaced.

"It was this huge fuckin' hitmonlee, man," Proton gasped, "bigger than normal, _so_ much fuckin' bigger than normal!"

"And you got away?" Petrel prompted, "does anyone know, are they after it?"

"Killed it," Proton answered, "carved that fucker right uu- _oh FUCK!_ " His breathing hitched as Petrel growled in exasperation, having handled him not too gently in the least.

"Wait," he said, "you mean to tell me you _charged_ this thing, you idiot?! What the _hell?_ "

"Traitor's pokemon," Proton tried to explain, "lots of grunts nearby, had to minimize the damage."

"Isn't this what happened last time, too? You lost a fight to a fucking larvitar, and that's how you bruised your ribs?" Proton grinned, but Petrel didn't seem too amused.

"Nah, man," Proton laughed, "I carved that li'l bitch up, too. _Won_ that fight."

"I don't care about _that_ shit," Petrel grumbled, "I care about whether or not this is gonna be a thing with you. Fighting some dumbass pokemon and hurting yourself."

" _Aww_ , look, you _care_ about me." Proton was cut off mid-laugh as Petrel purposefully jostled his injury, and he involuntarily let out a high keening sound. Petrel leaned in close, practically nose-to-nose, and when Proton returned to his senses, he found himself staring up into inky black pits, somehow angry and deadly serious both, as Petrel's mouth twisted into a sneer.

"Don't be a _fucking_ smart-ass," Petrel growled. Proton could smell the fresh stench of nicotine on his breath. "My job is to keep you and the twins _alive_ _enough_ to serve Master Giovanni. If you're one of those half-suicidal adrenaline junkies we seem to have a tendency in hiring, I need to know _now_ so I can tell Master Giovanni to _fire_ your ass."

"I ain't one of those idiots," Proton placated, smirking, "though, maybe it's just the pain talking, but _boy_ does that look make me want to _become_ one of 'em." He watched the fury work itself behind Petrel's eyes, watched him bow his head as he processed the situation. Then, he slowly raised his eyes and leaned forward again, whispering threateningly into Proton's ear.

"Now you listen to me, you little shit," he snarled, warm breath hitting Proton's ear and sending an involuntary shiver down his spine, "this is fucking _serious_. If this happens again, I'm going to see to it you're bed-ridden in the infirm for a _month_. And if this turns out to be a habit?" He shook his head. "You can kiss this shiny new promotion of yours goodbye, because I'm not letting a liability like that serve alongside me. Do we understand each other?"

Proton shivered again, whether from Petrel's proximity or the pain, he wasn't sure. Petrel grabbed him by the jaw and forced their eyes to meet. For a long moment, silence, but then Proton finally nodded. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, "I getcha. Fuckin' killjoy. I was just doin' my damn job."

Petrel backed off, his expression returning to normal. "It _is_ kinda cool that you knifed a hitmonlee," he grudgingly admitted, "and you're lucky. Doesn't seem nearly as bad as it could have been. Was it already hurt when it kicked you?" Proton nodded again. "Yeah, makes sense. Well... I think we're done, for now." Petrel finished bandaging him back up and took a step back. Proton slowly took to his feet, pressing his hand back to his side.

"Thanks," he said, "for the help. Thanks."

"It's why I'm here," Petrel replied, "why don't you go lie down and rest for a little bit? I'll bring you something to eat, later."

"Thanks," Proton said again. He stepped back around the couch and headed to the guest room as Petrel resumed his seat and work, finding his way to the bed and carefully lying down as he propped himself up a little ways with the pillow. When he was situated, he pulled his PokeGear out of his pocket and paged Decarli, instructing him to bring the paperwork by. Then he put his Gear to the side and took the empty pokeball out of his pocket, holding it up to the light. There was something wrong with this pokeball, just like there had been something wrong with that hitmonlee. Something very, very wrong.

Proton was determined to figure out what.


	7. Trial

**Disclaimer: If you think really, really hard about it, you will see that a disclaimer is the same as a duck.**

Petrel brought him a sandwich and some painkillers later that evening. It wasn't anything fancy: just ham and cheese with some lettuce and a little mustard. But to Proton, all food was good food, and he would never complain, especially if he was getting it for free. Still, even when Petrel came to bring it to him, for once Proton could have cared less about what he was going to sink his teeth into; he was more concerned with the strange pokeball he had taken from Pirouz.

"It's so weird," he said as Petrel came in with the plate, "look, it's just like the last one. The limiter is damaged on purpose, and the compression mechanism... yikes." He held the partially-deconstructed pokeball up for Petrel to see, but frankly, he didn't seem to care too much.

"Please tell me you're not going to leave those all over the bed," he said with distaste, eyeing the scattered bits and pieces Proton had already removed. Proton continued as though he couldn't hear him.

"See?" he pressed, pointing to the pieces in particular, "see, look, the limiter! It's part of the stasis relay, when it's damaged like this it keeps the pokeball from storing the pokemon correctly, and errors can form in their data for their molecular energy-!"

"That's nice," Petrel dismissed, "eat. I'll be back to check on you again eventually."

Proton scowled as Petrel left him with the sandwich and pills. The world would be a much better place, he mused, if people would take the time to care about how their pokeballs worked. Bitterly, he ripped a bite out of his sandwich and munched as he focused his attention back on his pet project.

Slowly, he worked his fingers into the gaps and felt around for the various releases, then dipped in his index finger to probe for the flood gate. It wasn't jammed. That was good. With a deep breath, he released the battery compartment and withdrew the fusion cell, holding it tenderly between his fingertips. It looked okay, wasn't damaged in the least. He fitted it back in and closed the compartment. He would need his tools to get at everything else, but the limiter... He continued to observe it for a while, turning it this way and that as he tried to make sense of the stress and precision hairline cuts. Damaging the limiter alone wouldn't have made the hitmonlee as huge and dangerous as it was. Neither would damaging the compressor, which, just like the limiter, had the same stress and cuts along it. Even together, the worst that could have happened was a small anomaly or two when hitmonlee was in the pokeball: not sleeping correctly, growing hungry at a more normal rate, maybe damage from burns in stasis...

Through the walls, Proton heard an insistent knock on the front door, then Petrel's heavy footsteps as he went to open it.

"Master Giovanni," Petrel greeted, and Proton could have sworn he even heard Petrel's neat salute, "I wasn't expecting you, Sir."

"Good evening, Petrel," Giovanni replied, "I heard about the ruckus downstairs. Just coming by to check in."

More footsteps, this time across the dorm and heading straight for his door.

"He's resting in here. Please, Sir, keep it short. He needs time. Can I bring you anything?"

"Whatever you have to drink would be fine."

Proton held his breath. The door slowly creaked open. Giovanni stepped inside, his usual businessman's smile taking over his lips. He seemed much less upset than he had at the staff meeting, the other morning.

"I heard about what happened," Giovanni said as he strode in, gracefully taking a seat in the chair by the desk, "I've just come to check on you. I see Petrel is taking care of you well enough."

Proton fiddled anxiously with the pokeball on his hand. "Yes, sir," he agreed. Giovanni nodded in satisfaction

"Good. I was worried he may have been... difficult, to say the least, but it seems I've been pleasantly surprised." His smile broadened and he leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of him. "So, I overheard a few grunts talking. Was it really a machamp?"

"Uhh, no," Proton replied quickly, "no, it was just a hitmonlee."

"Really!" Giovanni's smile stretched into a grin. "Oh, I'd have paid to watch that. You'll have to fill me in on the finer details, later. Petrel tells me you took quite a beating from it."

"Broke a rib." Proton drew himself up proudly as best he could through the pain. "Maybe a couple, I dunno. But I walked out of that fight."

"That you did!" Giovanni chuckled, "that you did. I'm afraid that, as I said, you'll have to keep the finer details for later. There's always business to discuss, after all."

Proton nodded. "Yeah, of course. What kind of business?" Was this normal? Giovanni making house calls to the executives, just kind of barging in whenever he wanted? It seemed really really casual. Like he was trying to hang, 21 Jumpstreet style. Maybe that was just the culture at the top, Proton decided. Before he could let his thoughts get away from him completely, he focused back in on Giovanni.

"...and of course, you handled the situation quite well, but I am wondering," the boss was saying, "if you were able to learn anything from the traitor." Proton blinked. Giovanni stared expectantly.

"Huh?" Proton replied stupidly, and Giovanni rolled his eyes.

"You understand, yes, that this is part of why I decided to promote you?" he prompted, and Proton nodded again. "Good. Then I suppose I'll repeat myself. What did you learn from the traitor?"

"Well, I mean..." Proton frowned and looked down to the pokeball in his hands as he idly fiddled with it. "Not... not much. Yet."

Giovanni's expression instantly soured. "You mean to tell me we had an admin from your division turn against us and you haven't done anything to take care of it?" he asked sharply, and Proton suddenly came to the realization he was treading a much finer line than he had originally thought.

"Pirouz - the traitor, he ain't ready to be broken. I'm havin' my boys starve him out first. Loosen him up." He looked up from the pokeball, staring directly into Giovanni's fury. That had been the wrong answer, Proton thought, and he braced himself for the recoil.

"And how long will that take?" Giovanni demanded, "I'm not sure if you realize how important it is that this is taken care of."

Proton stuck to his guns. "We usually leave em' a few days, get 'em nice and weak. It's better 'cause we can let them kinda rot there while we work on other-"

"You mean it's better because you get to be lazy," Giovanni interrupted, and Proton shut his mouth. "Answer me this, Proton, do you want this job? Or not?" Slowly, Proton nodded. Giovanni continued. "Then get me some damn results," he ordered, "if you can't do it, I'll find someone who will, and I don't think I need to tell you what happens to people who disappoint me. After all, you're around them all day long."

Giovanni shoved himself to his feet and headed for the door. Proton almost opened his mouth, almost dared to ask just what exactly the Boss wanted from him. He was spared his idiocy a moment later when Giovanni paused by the door and turned to address him one final time. "I want answers by the end of day. If you can't even do that little, I shouldn't have any problem replacing you."

He opened the door. Petrel was waiting awkwardly on the other side with a glass of red wine in his hands. Giovanni took it from him and without another word, stormed out of the apartment. Proton sagged. Petrel's gaze flitted between the front door and Proton, and then after a long moment, he tentatively stepped into the guest room, frowning after the closed front door.

"He took the whole glass again," he lamented, "I'm probably never getting it back. Man. I just got those, too."

"What do you want, Petrel?" Proton sighed as he rubbed his temples. Petrel turned his attention from the door back to Proton, his head cocking to the side as he drew nearer to the bed.

"I'm here to make sure you don't do something stupid," he answered bluntly, "I don't care what Master Giovanni said. You need to stay here and _rest_ if you're going to be useful." Proton shot him a glare from under his hand.

"Oh, please, you heard him," he replied, "I _know_ you were eavesdroppin'. I ain't endin' up like those stupid grunts that get shipped downstairs, man."

"Did you already forget?" Petrel pressed him, sitting carefully on the corner of the bed to stare him down, "I told you, my job is to make sure you _heal._ You're just going to have to deal with the consequences later."

"Go fuck yourself." Petrel blinked, head snapping back as though he had been slapped. When he finally processed Proton's vitriol, he scowled and eyed him distastefully.

"You better watch that pretty little mouth of yours, or one day it's going to get your ass in deep shit," he grumbled in reply. Then, he reached across the bed and drew back the covers to swipe Proton's pokegear and settled back to fiddle with it. Proton lunged to try and take it back, but stopped short as a stabbing pain shot through his ribs, and he deflated back into the pillow, watching on helplessly as Petrel pressed buttons for a while.

"There," Petrel said as he finished, and he tossed the pokegear back at Proton, "that's my personal. Only a handful of people have that number, so don't go giving it out." With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet. "Whatever your idiot brain decides to do, call me if your ribs start acting up. I'll come by and help."

"Thanks," Proton said, and Petrel merely grimaced in reply, exhaustion playing clear as day across his usually inexpressive face.

"Yeah, whatever," he grumbled. With that, he left the guest room, and Proton remained firmly in bed until he heard Petrel's door click shut. It was agony to hoise himself up; the pain meds hadn't kicked in yet, and fire spread across his poor, abused ribs as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Stars exploded in front of his eyes as he turned, and he stifled a groan of pain by quickly biting down on his knuckles. He didn't have time for this. Giovanni's subtle threat hung over his head like a rain cloud threatening to spill at any minute. He had come too far, worked too hard, and most importantly, he was friends with the kinds of sadists that his department nurtured. He would prefer not to be on the other end of the experience, for once. He hefted himself to his feet, and not bothering to put his shirt back on, carefully moved towards the door, taking great care not to jostle his torso any further.

This set the pace to his expedition; he was slow-moving as he descended through the base, felt like Petrel of all people could outrun him at this point. But there was no other option, and he pushed through it, ignoring the odd looks he got from grunts as he zeroed in on his goal. It took him a while, but as time passed, the meds kicked in and the pain lessened. His focus began to slip, and grogginess overtook him, but still he pressed on. The looks he was getting changed as he passed through the doors into the security division's sector, from confusion to awe as the various grunts and admins whispered to each other increasingly more outlandish renditions of his fight against Pirouz's strange pokemon, like they were all playing one big game of telephone. Even when he pushed his way into the break room, Decarli, Desta and Shufen, as well as Forhan and a handful of others, were recounting in undertones the tales they had heard of Proton's exploits. The whispering stopped almost immediately as he stepped inside and they took notice of him, and they all whipped their heads around to stare at him, wide-eyed. What a bunch of idiots.

"Well?" Proton demanded after a long moment in which everyone only stared, "what's the word on Pirouz?" His words came out much harsher than he intended, but Forhan was quick to jump at the chance to appease him.

"Last I heard, Carillo dragged him to a Fun Room near your block," she said, "no word on anything else."

"Did he really send three machamp after you?" Shufen asked.

"I heard it was four," Desta piped up, "and that he killed them with a spoon."

"How could anyone kill four machamp with a spoon?" Decarli questioned, and Desta shrugged.

"Very carefully," she replied. Proton was quick to shut them down.

" _No_ ," he snapped, "and don't go spreading that shit around. It was one fuckin' 'roided out hitmonlee, and it broke my _fuckin_ ' ribs, so I ain't in the mood to deal with this bullshit today."

"You broke your _ribs?_ " Decarli's eyes widened. "Kid, you need to be resting, you shouldn't be back so soon!"

"Can it, Decarli!" Proton snarled, and his friend flinched back, surprised. A sick sense of satisfaction welled itself in Proton's heart, and he let loose. "I'm tired of all this _kid_ bullshit! You idiots need to get ya asses in _fucking_ line before you end up like Pirouz, you understand?!" Mutely, they nodded at him, and Proton graced them with a humorless smile that was all teeth and pain. "Good. Now get back to ya goddamn jobs." They scurried off without another word. He felt _powerful_. Maybe...

Maybe Petrel had been right.

His block wasn't too far from the break room. Some of the cells he shared with Peng, some with Decarli, both of whom had their blocks to either side of his. The "Fun Rooms," as those in his circle tended to call them, were small clusters of interrogation chambers in the middle of a given squad's wing; there were four Fun Rooms for Proton's squad, shared as equally between the six of them as they could manage. Occasionally, there was some headbutting, but for the most part they made it work well enough. The Fun Room Forhan had referenced was in fact the the one between Proton and Peng's blocks. _B-34_ was written on the plaque beside the door, and above that, the card had been flipped to green to show that it was in-use. Proton didn't bother knocking, and finding the door wasn't locked, he pushed it open and strolled inside with his head held high, as though he wasn't about to pass out from the pain or the medication.

Just like all the other Fun Rooms, this one was dark and just mildly damp enough to be uncomfortable. The concrete was irreparably stained in some areas along the floor. In the center of the room was a chair that, under normal circumstances, might have belonged in a dentist's office. Unfortunately, these were not normal circumstances, and Pirouz was quite clearly strapped so tightly to that chair that he couldn't move much. His hands gripped the armrests they were strapped too so hard his knuckles were stark-white, and even in that poor lighting, he looked awfully pale, his eyes darting manically this way and that. Dried blood was caked on his upper lip and bruises covered his face. He was breathing heavily, too, like he was in the early stages of a panic attack. Proton couldn't blame him. It was probably smart. But to borrow a phrase, it wasn't anything personal - it was just business. And Carillo, who was looming eerily by a tray cart of equipment, looked like he was inclined to agree.

"He hasn't answered a single damn question so far," Carillo reported, "not that I've tried anything too serious, but you'd think he would be smart about this."

"Yeah, you'd think." Proton's agreement was almost absent-minded in manner, as he was far too preoccupied comparing his tools on-hand to the sorry state Pirouz was in. Some wire cutters... pliers... a pack of Carillo's favorite cigarettes lay open, a lighter nearby. Proton caught sight of a small, round burn or two on Pirouz's face. There were other things on the cart, too. A box-cutter. A power drill. All sorts of lovely toys. Proton reached out to softly finger one of the box-cutters. Carillo snorted.

"Should I give you and Stabby some alone time?" he mocked.

"Shut ya trap," ordered Proton, "it ain't like that, and you know it. I would never do Mr. Drill like that." To make a point, he left the box cutter alone and took the power drill in his hands, whirring the bit. When he next spoke, it was over his shoulder, directed at their poor, unfortunate little traitor. "Now, Pir. You're a good guy. You know I don't wanna do this to ya. So I'll make ya a deal. You sing, and I'll make it quick. No pain. Just sleep. What do you say?"

"I didn't - I don't - " Pirouz sputtered, "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

" _Ohhhh, Pir_ ," Proton lamented, clicking his tongue, "that was the wrong answer."

It had almost been so long since he had worked down here properly that Proton had nearly forgotten what he loved about his job. The bit whirling on the drill, he pressed the tip adamantly to Pirouz's knee and pressed, harder and harder, until he felt not only the flesh tear but the bit drilling into bone, and he heard, in the back of his mind, Pirouz screaming as he worked. After a few seconds, Proton reversed the drill and drew the bit out to the tune of louder, more desperate screams, and Proton smiled.

"There's plenty where that came from!" he announced over Pirouz's ragged, labored gasps of air, and he leaned over him, throwing one arm amicably around his shoulders as he motioned with the drill. "See, that's the kind of thing I could really get into. In and out, no fuss. And that was just one knee!" He flashed Pirouz a charming smile. "Imagine what I could do with the _rest_ of you."

"I don't know who they are," Pirouz pleaded between gasps, "please, they only told me what to take for them, I don't know who they _are_."

"Oh, come on, I know you can do better than _that_ ," Proton taunted. He neared the drill bit towards Pirouz's other knee, and his captive immediately began sputtering out pleas and begs for mercy, neither of which Proton was in the mood to hear. He gritted his teeth, eyebrow twitching, and pressed the drill to Pirouz's other knee, drilling through screams of agony until he was sure the bit had come out the other side. Then, again, he reversed the drill to pull it back out. Pirouz's screams slowly died out, his eyes glazing over as his body began to slump.

"Oh, no you don't, bitch," Proton hissed, then shot a look at Carillo over his shoulder. "Spike 'im. He ain't gettin' off that easy."

Carillo didn't argue. Maybe he realized something was wrong, or maybe he just wasn't feeling like an asshole that day. Either way, he did as he was told, and he hurried forward with a needle that he plunged into Pirouz's skin, shooting him up with adrenaline. The focus began to come back into his eyes, and Proton grinned humorlessly.

" _There_ we go," he said, a sing-song voice to mask his frustration, "time to wake up. We aren't quite finished with you, yet."

"Kill me," Pirouz begged, voice still slurred from his brief shock, "it's going to happen anyways, just kill me."

"Then tell me who put you up to this," Proton replied, "all I need is one name, and then you're done." He raised the drill again, bit glistening red under the lights. "I'm thinking your hands next, how about you?"

Pirouz was tougher than Proton would have ever given him credit for. Even after having seven individual knuckles drilled into, plus one elbow, he didn't say one damn useful thing. Oh, sure, he cried and screamed and whimpered like a child, but his tenacity, his stubbornness - Proton could admire that, under the right circumstances. These were not, however, the right circumstances. No, the shit that got Proton here in the first place was nothing he would wish to ever experience again, and he was acutely aware that if Pirouz continued to keep his mouth shut, Proton may as well be the next one in that damnable chair. The thought was maddening, and Proton quickly began to feel the pressure and the stress, time dwindling further and further away. He became desperate. He became angry.

Precision drilling soon became sloppy, and so did his method. His whole friendly routine flew straight out the window, replaced by louder and more forceful snarls and curses. When it was clear the drill was getting nowhere, Proton exchanged it for a pair of pliers and began yanking teeth out, one by one, until Pirouz was a blubbering mess, blood pouring down his mouth. Then it was onto his fingernails, yanked out with the same rough lack of precision as everything else.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Decarli strolled in to keep Carillo company and chat with him as they watched Proton work. He was eating something incredibly pungent, and frankly, Proton only even knew he came in from the smell; for the most part, he tried to ignore the two as he worked, slowly pulling another of Pirouz's nails straight off the flesh.

"Been at this a while, huh?" Decarli remarked.

"Yeah," Carillo answered, "and it's going nowhere fast. Frankly, I don't have high hopes."

"Well, maybe with some footwork, later, we can try and piece out who he was going to contact," Decarli sighed, "too bad, I was hoping we would find out something solid, today."

"Can't be helped, I suppose," Carillo sighed.

Proton, half-way through ripping off the nail, stiffened, and turned deliberately round at them.

" _Excuse_ me?" he growled, and Decarli and Carillo exchanged glances. Before either of them could defend themselves, Proton was on them, brandishing the pliers in his hand threateningly as he approached. "What's this bullshit, ' _can't be helped_?' You think this is _okay?_ That we can have a traitor in the fuckin' _security_ department and it's _fine_ not to know why?"

"I didn't say that," Decarli tried to explain, but he shut up as Proton jammed the pliers at him.

"It's not your ass on the line, Decarli," he hissed, "so you keep your goddamn hole _shut_ or I'll find a way to do it for you."

Proton paused. He eyed Decarli's lunch personally, first the rice and weird vegetables he had in his foam bowl, then the spoon he held tightly in his other was it, Proton realized, that was the answer. He needed that spoon. Oh, did he have _plans_ for that spoon. He dropped the pliers on the spot, and dismissing Decarli's protests, he yanked the spoon out of his hand and whirled around, storming back towards Pirouz.

"Shut up," he ordered over his prey's agonized groans, "I'm going to say this once. Tell me who your contact was, or things are gonna start lookin' real dark, real soon."

Pirouz didn't heed him. Proton wasn't surprised. He grabbed Pirouz firmly by the hair, twisting and yanking so he had a clear shot at his face, and then without warning dug the spoon under Pirouz's eye. There was a ringing in Proton's ears - no, screaming - but it didn't stop him. Pirouz cried and screamed and begged, and when the first eye fell to the floor, practically bounced and rolled, he broke. Information began pouring out of his mouth like it was the KohJoh Falls, how he never knew how contact's name, but knew what was expected of him. What he had to take. The dead drop he was supposed to have taken the documents to. That he was working for Cipher. And Proton was not surprised, but neither was he satisfied. He pressed the spoon under the second eye, and with a little fenangling and elbow grease, that one went, too.

When Proton finally turned back around, no longer hunched with stress but relieved, even through the anger, it was to find Carillo staring hard down at the tools tray while Decarli retched into the trash can in the corner. What a bunch of fuckin' pussies, Proton thought. He didn't pay them much mind, after that. He gave Carillo orders to return Pirouz to a cell, then pulled out his pokegear and dialed Petrel's number before thrusting it at Decarli.

"Tell him to send someone down to keep the traitor alive," he ordered, "I'll be back later."

Whether Decarli heard him or not over his retching, Proton neither knew nor cared, and he practically flew out the door as he raced to get to Giovanni's private wing. Everything was starting to get a bit wobbly. More than once the floor shifted under his feet and he teetered dangerously, but it didn't stop him, and he _ran_. He bypassed the elevator entirely, favoring the stairs as he took them two, three at a time. Somewhere in the middle there was a big blur of missing memories, but he recalled how dark it seemed outside as he made it to Giovanni's wing. There was no one to guide him; he half-expected Archer to be loitering around nearby, but he wasn't. That was okay. Proton didn't need help. Like he was influenced by some sixth sense, he found himself drawn to a particular room in the private wing, one with a light on under the door and the sounds of a television playing. Barely able to keep himself upright, Proton practically collapsed on the door as he approached, and he could hear two people talking on the other side. Without even daring to ask permission, he jostled the door handle and shoved it open (mostly by body weight) as he staggered inside. Giovanni and Ariana, who were relaxing together on a couch as they watched television, both snapped their gaze over, the former somehow with a straight face while the latter was positively shocked and appalled.

"Proton!" Ariana snapped as she leaped to her feet, "what the _hell!_ Who gave you permission to come up here, what are you even _thinking_?"

"It's alright, Ari," Giovanni said bemusedly, and in her fury she turned back on him.

"It's _not_ alright for this _child_ to be barging in here without permission!" she hissed. "There are certain fucking _boundaries_ I expect at the end of the day, Giovanni, and not having one of these _idiots_ barrel through the door while we're trying to relax is one of them."

"I'm an adult," Proton said aloud to no one in particular as he steadied himself on the wall, doing his best to remain upright even as his eyelids began to droop against his will. His knees slowly gave out, and he began sliding down the wall. Giovanni and Arianna both watched him do so for a good minute before she turned on him again.

"Look," she said, much quieter this time, "placing him with Petrel was a bad idea, he's _clearly_ stoned. We don't need another meth-head trying to run a part of this organization."

"Ari, it's _fine_ ," Giovanni repeated, "all that matters is whether or not he's brought me results." With a grunt, the Boss pushed himself to his feet and came to stand over Proton, gazing down at his nearly-horizontal form.

"Well?" he asked as Proton's vision slowly faded to black, "did you?"


	8. Frustration

**Disclaimer: Zubat Fangs and Ditto Slime was disclaimed in front of a live studio audience.**

Everything was blurry. He could see it. Feel it in his mind's eyed. Every time he opened his eyes, the world was just beyond his reach. One minute, noisy. The next noisier. After that, tense. Eventually, quiet. Sometimes there was pain, white-hot inside of him. It was there when he moved, when he breathed. It would start as a dull ache, but sometimes it would feel like the hitmonlee was kicking him all over again. His mouth would be dry, his tongue clumsy. Eventually, the pain would leave, and the darkness would take him once again. His body always felt so heavy.

Maybe this was purgatory. Proton always wondered where he would go when he died. Except he never expected purgatory to smell so... _sterile_. Blearily, he peered through long lashes. It was bright, too. The dull ache was back, spreading across his sides and lungs as it called to him. No, this wasn't purgatory. He could feel a rickety, uncomfortable mattress beneath him and a floppy pillow under his head. Purgatory, he was pretty sure, was supposed to be much worse. This was only mildly shitty.

His eyes watered against the light as he opened them. He recognized the ceiling. It was plaster, but different from the popcorn ceiling in the dorms. It reminded him of his high school, and throwing pencils point-first into the ceiling, there. Whether or not high school was better than his current location remained to be seen: he was in the infirm. That was what that smell was, he realized as he slowly came to his senses, formaldehyde.

The room he was in was small, with just enough space for one bed and a smattering of machines and equipment. Proton heard the steady _beep, beep, beep_ of a heart monitor next to him as he eyed a relatively nice TV against the far wall through his painful, light-induced tears. This was much nicer and much quieter than the grunt infirm rooms. Even the sheets felt smoother, and a nice quilt (that even appeared to be home-made, surprisingly) was draped over top of them to help keep him warm. Proton yawned, a sharp pain shooting through his side. It wasn't half bad in this room. If this was one of the perks of being an executive, he could get used to it.

Soon, though, the last snippets of his memory came clawing back to haunt him; the dangerous hitmonlee, his broken ribs, Pirouz the traitor. Above all else, he recalled Giovanni and his threats, his demands for results. Proton had results for him. He had to tell him, it was important - there was no time to waste - couldn't end up like Pirouz, couldn't lose his _money_ \- He struggled to get up against the burning pain in his side, the haze drifting further and further out of his mind. He couldn't move. He had to get up, but he couldn't thrashed as he tried to free himself from his prison, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts as his shoulders heaved. The next thing he knew, a large, spidery hand was pressing him firmly back into the mattress, and someone was speaking at him.

"-but you need to _calm_ _down!_ You're in the infirm and everything is _fine_ ," came the deep, languid voice, and Proton wanted to scream. No, _nothing_ was fine. He had this stupid promotion all of four fucking days and he'd already gotten his ass on Giovanni's hit list. He hadn't even made it to his first pay check. If he didn't make it to Giovanni _now_ then he could kiss his freedom goodbye. With that thought in mind, Proton struggled harder, elbowing at the one trying to force him back. What he was not expecting was for that large, spidery hand's twin to fly through the air to slap him across the face, and momentarily dazed, his vicious fighting came to an abrupt halt.

"Pull yourself together, you idiot!" the deep voice came again, " _breathe_ , dammit! Come on, now, with me: in - out. That's it. Slow it down. You've got it. In - out." Under the voice's instructions, Proton slowly pulled his breathing into check, and his tunnel vision faded until finally, he was relaxed; or, as much as he could be, knowing his impending doom was still hanging over his head.

It was then he realized who was beside him. He had half-expected one of the regular nurses, like Adora, but instead, peering down at him was Petrel, in all of his apathetic glory. He was dressed in his red and black scrubs again, his brow pointed in something a regular human might consider to be concern, though Proton assumed on Petrel's planet was some sort of boredom. His one hand was still pressed firmly to Proton's chest, just over his heart, while the one Petrel had slapped him with sought out his forehead.

" _Fffffuck_ ," Proton finally manged to verbalize. His thrashing had caused the pain to spread; Petrel was already tenderly feeling along his side to gauge the damage.

"Maybe later, sweetheart," he snarked, "inpatients don't really do it for me. "

" _No_ ," Proton groaned, "it fucking _hurts_ , you trash." Petrel jostled him, and then it hurt _worse_. Proton swore again and writhed, trying to get out of Petrel's reach, but his grip was too strong.

"Oh, _sorry_ ," Petrel said through clenched teeth, his voice sickly sweet, "are you _hurt_ there?"

"What the fuck, Petrel?!" Proton demanded as he finished gasping down the pain, and Petrel's plastic grin widened.

"The next time you call me trash, I think I might be so startled I _drop_ something on you," he replied, "and I hope your _other_ ribs stay safe." He tousled Proton's hair mockingly. "Boss is going to want to see you. It's been days, so he's a little antsy."

"Been days since what?" Proton asked. Petrel ignored him for a minute. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, but something... was _wrong_ , Proton decided as he watched him. He seemed to struggle, especially in the mere act of bending his legs.

"Days since I hauled your ass in here," Petrel clarified. He seemed to realize he was getting nowhere fast in trying to stand, and instead, he settled for pulling himself up into a nearby chair where he settled in with a suffering grunt. Next to the chair was a small side table with files upon files sitting on it, and at the chair's foot yet another stack. A pen lay haphazardly on the table, looking about ready to fall. Someone had been using that chair for a while. Proton idly wondered if Decarli had visited to keep him company.

"What do you mean, days?" he pressed Petrel, "I was just in the boss's private wing, I need to speak with him."

"He'll be here eventually," Petrel said, "I told him you needed rest. We were pumping so many painkillers into you, you weren't in any state to tell anyone anything. It's been... three days, maybe?"

Three days. Three whole days late. Proton sank in on himself. He should have just woken up downstairs, locked away like the rest of the failures. False hope was cruelty. Why was Giovanni even allowing him to rehabilitate in the infirm when Proton had clearly violated his instructions? He almost asked as much, self-preservation be damned, when there was a knock on the door. Before either of them could go so far as to grant entry, the door swung open, and Giovanni poked his head in. Upon seeing Proton awake, he gave his most charming smile and stepped on through. Archer, clipboard in hand, was right behind him.

"Well, now," Giovanni said, " _there's_ my star. I see you're finally awake! We were worried you'd be another few days."

"Sir," Archer tried to cut in, but Giovanni continued over him.

"You did some very impressive work with that traitor," he said, pulling a spare chair right up on Proton's bedside and gracefully seating himself, "I wasn't sure you would be able to meet my demands, but frankly, you surprised me."

"But I didn't," Proton replied, "it's been days since-"

"Quiet," Giovanni ordered, "I'm not done." Proton shut his mouth. "I'm less concerned over you passing out and more the spirit of the thing, you see? I told you to do something, and you did it, damn the cost. _Now_..." He leaned forward in his chair, over the bed. "Tell me what you found."

"Cipher." No one seemed surprised when Proton said that. "He couldn't give us no names, only that Cipher had reached out an' bought 'im off."

"We've been aware of Cipher's activity in Kanto for some time, now," Archer dismissed, "this is hardly new information."

"Did you look at the file he stole?" Proton asked, turning his attention to Archer, who frowned.

"It was still sealed," he said, "there was no indication of what it was on the envelope, so there was no reason to. He couldn't have known what it was."

"We don't label them like you guys do, we color-code them and sort 'em by room," Proton told him, "he stole blueprints."

"Blueprints?" Giovanni leaned forward, capturing Proton's attention once more. The charismatic smile had disappeared. What Proton looked into was fierce and conniving, but not inherently threatening; at least, not towards Proton, and he felt himself relaxing as he nodded affirmation.

"For your private wing, sir," he answered, "with camera placements."

"Maybe they're planning a hit," Petrel lazily suggested, "it's what I would do if I were trying to take out the competition."

"They're hardly competition," Archer disagreed, "they _barely_ have a foot in Kanto as it is. If they were planning a hit, it would be a suicide mission."

"Well," Giovanni said as he pushed himself to his feet, "I suppose the why is the mystery we'll not be able to solve, for now. This conversation has been illuminating, to say the least."

"Sir, with all due respect, you ought to be more worried about this," Archer told him, and Giovanni flashed him a grin and clapped him amicably on the shoulder.

"What's life without an assassination attempt or two?" he said, "besides, I have you four to worry about these sorts of things for me. I'm _way_ too busy." He headed for the door, pausing on his way out to turn back to the three of them. "If you find out anything else, any of you, come by my office. Otherwise treat this as a non-starter. Ciao, boys."

And then he was gone.

" _Ciao, boys_ ," came Giovanni's echo, and Proton and Archer's heads snapped back towards Petrel, who was wearing a lazy smirk as he reclined into his seat.

"I thought I said to stop doing that," Archer said.

"You're such a killjoy," Petrel chuckled, "you know I love boss, but even _you_ can admit he's a little pretentious, sometimes." Archer leveled him with a hard stare before an amused smile broke out over his lips, as well.

"I'm going to be saying that to Ari for _weeks_ ," he gleefully confided, "she's going to be _pissed."_

"It's better than his mysterious disappearance phase, for sure," Petrel agreed, "anyways, why are you still here? Did you need something?"

"Yes, in fact." Archer shuffled papers around on his clipboard for a moment before handing one to Proton.

"What's this?" Proton asked.

"For your office, of course," Archer said, "your lieutenant filled out the rest of the forms in your stead, I just need your signature here... here... and here." He pointed to each space in turn, then handed a pen over to him. Proton quickly signed and handed it all back. Archer took a moment to look it over, then nodded approvingly. "You know, as dramatic as he can be, Master Giovanni's right," he continued, "you did good work. Keep this up and we won't have any problems."

"Yeah, I hear you," Proton agreed, "so does that mean I can go back to work?" Archer glanced to Petrel, who shook his head.

"He's staying here for a couple more days so I can make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," Petrel explained.

"In that case, I'll have his paperwork sent here," Archer decided, "don't want Master Giovanni's _star_ to be bored, now, do we?" He checked his watch, then adjusted his jacket. "Well, I'll need to be off. I need to rectify this bid situation - he's desperate for the property in Goldenrod, though I can't imagine _why_."

"We believe in you, Archer," Petrel drolled as he scooped up a chunk of the paper stack next to his seat, "knock 'em dead."

"Behave, or I'll send you to do it," Archer warned on his way out, "Proton, feel well."

"Bye, Archer!" Proton called after him. When the door clicked shut, the excitement more or less ended, and Proton released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Things really were okay. He ran one hand down his face. Maybe it had been an empty threat to begin with, or maybe Giovanni really was just kind of prone to those flights of fancy. Either way, he thanked whatever greater power would listen that he hadn't ended with the same fate as Pirouz, and hoped against all odds it was a fate he would continue to avoid.

"You doing alright?" Petrel asked him, and Proton nodded.

"A little worn out is all," he replied.

"Yeah, the meds will do that," Petrel agreed, "just take it easy. You'll be out by the weekend, and then you'll have the dorm to yourself for a few days."

"Why?"

"What does it matter?"

"It doesn't. I'm just curious."

Petrel rolled his eyes. "My night manager is out," he explained, "day shift will be fine with Bernard, so I'll be covering for Perry until she gets back."

"Oh," Proton said, "do you have to do that a lot?"

"Not typically," Petrel admitted, "that's why it's good to surround yourself with competent, obedient admins. You won't have to worry about things much in the long run." Proton hummed his agreement, but that was about where the conversation stopped as Petrel immersed himself in his paperwork. Quickly growing bored with nothing to do, Proton settled for turning on the news.

Decarli stopped in after lunch; he brought a few cookies to leave on one of the bedside tables, and took the extra chair to sit next to Proton for a while, catching him up to speed on everything that had happened in the security department while he was gone. It turned out he had been the one to request Proton's new office, claiming he had found the perfect room near Proton's block; he would have to trust Decarli on that for the time being. Proton mused. Eventually Forhan and Heim dropped in on them as well to share the recent gossip, chattering on until Petrel abruptly stood and pushed all three of them out before shutting and locking the door, dropping back into his seat with a disgruntled huff. What a drag. Proton quietly went back to watching the news. A runner turned up a few hours later with a stack of paperwork in hand, and with nothing better to do, Proton started to painstakingly make his way through it all.

That more or less summed up the rest of his experience in the infirm. He would doze intermittently under Petrel's watchful eye, always waking to the sound of pen on paper and the sight of Petrel working, hunched, in the chair by the lamp. While he was awake, Proton would work, too, and other than Petrel occasionally tending to Proton's injury, neither of them spoke, preferring to remain wholly in silence. Even with the constant white noise of the news droning on in the background, the relative quiet and solitariness was a break he hadn't known he needed.

He wasn't sure how many days it had been, but eventually Proton woke to an altogether strange occurrence: he was alone. Petrel's usual stack of papers and files were gone, and so too was Petrel himself. The TV was off. What time was it? Maybe there was a staff meeting or something. Proton lazily scratched his side as he sat up. Maybe he could get away with wandering down to the vending machine before Petrel got back.

Just as he was swinging his legs out of the bed, however, the door opened, and Proton cringed, entirely expecting to get chewed out by Petrel and made to resume his boring recovery. It wasn't Petrel who came through, though; in fact, it wasn't any of the other executives. It was Bernard, clipboard in hand and a determined look on his face. He looked up from the clipboard as he stepped through and offered Proton a smile.

"Hey, good morning," he greeted, "glad you're up. How do you feel about blowing this popsicle stand?"

Relief washed over Proton, and he resumed taking to his feet. It felt good to stretch; beyond the few times he'd needed to use the restroom, Petrel had kept him bedridden, something Proton had suspected might not have been the healthiest thing for him to do.

"Holy shit am I ready to leave," he replied, and Bernard laughed.

"Yeah, I'll bet," he agreed, "Petrel got a bit overzealous about you, huh? How's your ribs?"

"Sore," Proton admitted. He looked down to his torso. "But it doesn't hurt as much as it did."

"Let me see?"

Proton lifted his undershirt for Bernard to take a look, and the moment he did, Bernard huffed.

"Really?" he muttered, "bandages? Like he doesn't know better... probably just got off on seeing you squirm..."

"What?" Proton prompted, though Bernard merely shook his head.

"Nothing. Let's get these off."

As soon as Bernard began unraveling the bandages, a pressure lifted from Proton's chest. All of a sudden breathing was easier and hurt far less than it had before, and he inhaled as deeply as he could until a brief, sharp pain forced him to stop. _Fuck_ , did that feel good.

"Better?" Bernard prompted.

"Much," Proton agreed as he smoothed his undershirt back down, "so am I free to go?"

"Yeah, go on, skip off," Bernard said, "Petrel told me to remind you he's working night shift this week if you need him."

"Well, between my paperwork and everything else, you guys probably won't see me." Proton grimaced, and Bernard chuckled.

There was some brief paperwork to fill on the way out, and then finally, _finally_ Proton was free. The dorm was dark and quiet when he got in. Petrel's door was shut, and so Proton tiptoed to the guest room and did his best not to make a ton of noise. The traitor's pokeball was on the desk, all the parts and pieces kept neatly in an old tupperware container next to it. Petrel must have picked them all up, and for that Proton was at least a little bit grateful. It made his plan that much more simple. He scooped up both the pokeball and the tupperware and headed off in search of the engineering department.

He had assumed, during his last visit, that the admin who had caught him up to speed had been the engineering division's lead admin, but apparently not. Another admin accosted him as he entered, pressing him over whether he really was or wasn't the mew executive. After a frustrating twenty minutes in which Proton was forced to prove himself several times over, he eventually convinced her and had her lead him to their nerds.

The Nerd Room, as Proton decided to call it, was a large lab crammed with itty bitty cubicles where their programmers worked. It was filled with the clicks of mice and the incessant tapping of fingers on keyboards, coupled with the occasional laugh as the nerds messaged each other through the internal system. Along the edges of the room were some machines for various purposes Proton didn't know, and at the far wall wss a door leading to the server room. This wasn't his first time to the Nerd Room, and Proton knew right where he was going. He wound his way through the maze of cubicles, passing an extraordinary amount of nerd figurines on desks until eventually he came to one cubicle in particular in the far corner, where a girl sat furiously typing code into a processor. She didn't turn around until Proton pointedly coughed, at which she started and whirled around in her seat.

"Oh!" she said, face pink, "Executive Proton, sir! I didn't - didn't expect you to come by!" She can't have been much older than Proton, if even that; she was clearly native to KohJoh, with long, dark hair that she pulled pack into a loose bun under her cap. She was sitting properly, back straight and feet flat, and her eyes drifted around Proton's toes, hardly able to look up at him.

"But it's a nice surprise, right?" Proton joked, smirking, and her face became so red it would have put a magmar to shame.

"W-w-well," she stammered out, "yeah, uh, of - of - of course!"

"So listen," Proton said, "I've heard you're the one who understands pokeball programming, is that right - sorry, your name?"

"Chiho," the girl replied, "and, well... I've dabbled a bit. I don't know how - how much help I can be, Sir."

"I need equipment," he explained, and he held the traitor's pokeball up for Chiho to see. Her eyes widened at the deconstructed nature of it, and the pieces Proton was keeping in the tupperware.

"Oh, wow, it's really been taken apart, hasn't it?" she mused, "i-if you want, I can fix - I can fix it."

"I don't need that." Proton shook his head. "I just need a computer that can decrypt and edit its coding. Do you have anything like that?" Chiho paused to think, then nodded.

"One second," she promised. Proton waited patiently as she excused herself and disappeared through the server room door. While she was gone, he leaned in to peer at her monitor. Code cluttered the screen. Whatever she had been working on, it looked important, though the code the base used was foreign to him at best. When Proton finally stopped being nosy, it was because the server room door opened and Chiho was back, her arms stacked with a variety of equipment as she rushed back to Proton's side.

"Here you are, Executive!" she chirped, "This should be everything you need! Do you need help setting it up, or learning code or anything?"

"No, this should be it," Proton replied as he took the equipment from her. It didn't seem like a ton; an old laptop and a power cord, as well as an external pokeball dock with a variety of cords of its own. There was also a case of blank CDs, "just in case," Chiho told him. She was eager to find more things to do for him, but Proton continued to politely decline until he could finally break away, and thanking the current supervisor, he left the Nerd Room and the Engineering division be. They seemed to have everything under control, after all. It wouldn't hurt to find a primary admin for it, though.

No one was around when Proton made it back to the Security division, but that wasn't a big deal. They were probably working, and the longer they left him alone today, the better - and now that he had a fancy new office, they would have to find him, first. The room number was still seared into his mind from the paperwork, and with a bounce in his step, Proton set off to find it, ignoring the wounded howls that occasionally spilled into the halls. It really wasn't too far from his block at all: a few turns and that was about it. It was so inconspicuous that Proton had been sure it was a maintenance closet of some sort before, but now the door sported a placard that read, in clear, bold print, " _Exec. Proton_." His own office. Who would have ever thought? Eagerly, Proton shifted to balance his equipment in one arm as he fished in his pocket for his key card and swiped it through the reader. The light turned green. He took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

It was cozy. Not big by any means, but not too small. He could have probably fit two of himself, finger tip-to-finger tip, across the width of the room, and maybe six or seven along the length, and much like the rest of the underground, some of the lights flickered. Jammed into the back of the room was a mess of tall, metal storage racks, piled high with what looked to be old and outdated computers and other machines and electronics, with wires snaking this way and that. There was no desk; he would need to go bother someone in requisitions, but that was fine. It could wait for now. As the door shut behind him, Proton knelt and gently set his things on the floor, then dragged a crate of broken keyboards next to one of the power outlets before setting the laptop on it and plugging it in. It took a while to boot up. The laptop, although not ancient, was by no means a spring torchic, and while it loaded the operating system, Proton did his best to make himself comfortable as he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of it. He opened the container with the traitor's pokeball and began fitting the pieces back together, and by the time he was done, the laptop was ready. Proton quickly plugged in the pokeball dock with bright eyes, waiting with bated breath as he watched drivers install. This was it. This was the moment of truth. He was about to figure out what the hell was going on with these stupid Cipher fucks, and forget ever worrying about his livelihood again, he would be in Giovanni's graces for good. The drivers finished installing. It was ready.

He took the pokeball and carefully nestled it into the dock, then opened the command prompt and ran the de-encryption software. The UI popped up; Proton wasn't sure if this was the same program as the one Silph developed, but it sure did look official. He hit CTRL-O and navigated to the pokeball's input, then hit enter. The cursor turned into an hourglass as a progress bar popped up, and behind it all, Proton could see code being read into the program, filling up the screen almost faster than his eyes could keep up. A few times he could have sworn he saw bad code, but before he could process it, it had disappeared. That was fine. He would find it again. The progress bar breached eighty percent. Proton leaned forward. Eighty-five percent. Another error raced by. Ninety percent. He saw something strange calling on a code he'd never seen before, but then again, he was an amateur with this at best - what would he know? Ninety-five percent. Proton placed his fingers on the track pad. This was it. This was the moment of truth.

One hundred percent. Proton had just long enough to see the name _Ein_ before the computer sparked, and he jumped back on his feet just as it caught on fire, the screen displaying its deathly blue as it made a high-pitched, shrill beeping noise. Proton swore and beat at the fire with his hat, reaching for the pokeball to try and rescue it. That sparked, too, and this time Proton let out a very unmanly squeak as he threw himself on the other side of one of the storage racks as though it would protect him from what he assumed would be the pokeball's impending melt-down. The sprinklers kicked in. The fire quickly died down.

When Proton was finally certain he wasn't about to be the ground zero victim of a tint nuclear meltdown, he tentatively stepped out from his hiding place and approached the burnt and destroyed tech. The laptop was clearly beyond repair, and Proton supposed he would be better off jamming it on one of the junk shelves rather than return it to Engineering. The pokeball, on the other hand... Proton snatched it up and cracked it open, digging his fingers inside and until he could the paneling away. The flood gates were jammed. That probably wasn't the best sign, but at least they were holding. But the chips... Proton gazed forlornly into the pokeball's guts. Everything was basically melted. The pokeball was next to useless. Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair and let out a long hiss of air before finally pulling his cap back on. This was fine. Everything was fine. It's not like anyone needed to k ow what happened or that it would effect his pay check or anything. Everything was good. He'd just... find somewhere to throw the pokeball away. For now, he placed it back on the dock. That was probably fried, too.

He turned and kicked the crate. Hard. It hurt; in fact, it probably hurt his toes a lot more than it had soothed his soul, but that wasn't the point. He kicked the crate again. And again. And again. He kept kicking the crate until it finally shattered into splinters of wood, and shoulders heaving with the effort, Proton let out a vicious " _fuck!_ " before he collapsed back onto the floor and rubbed his temples, growing steadily soaked under the sprinklers' torrent. He had been so close. _So close._ This was going to bug him for a while. He needed another pokeball from one of those Cipher traitors, is what it was.

There were voices outside. Voices he recognized. Decarli, Peng, Carillo, Forhan, Heim. They were bitching about the sprinklers. Proton supposed he would have to figure out how to shut those off. His eyes forlornly flitted from the burnt heap of junk to the door. He knew what had to be done; it was time to start cracking down.

With that in mind, Proton took to his feet and ran out of his office and down the hall to catch up with the others. He wasn't beaten yet.


	9. Paperwork, Pets, and Pests, Oh My!

**Disclaimer: Have you ever danced with the disclaimer in the pale moonlight?**

"I expect you all are wondering why I called you here, today."

No one looked amused. Proton felt a pout coming on as he gazed around at his squad, their ire plain across their faces as they sat soggily around the break room's tall bistro table in their own puddles. Losers. That had totally been an awesome imitation of a parlor murder detective. Why couldn't they appreciate art when they saw it?

"What the fuck did you do to set off the sprinklers?" Peng deadpanned.

"That's not important," Proton dismissed, but Peng did not seem pleased with his answer.

"Why can't we do this after we all dry off?" Heim demanded, "even my _bra_ is soaked."

"Because I said so," Proton answered, "and I'm the executive." There was a general round of grumbles and murmurs, but he chose to pointedly ignore those and instead placed the traitor's broken pokeball in the center of the table. Still, no one seemed to care. He began as though they did. "This is the pokeball Pirouz's hitmonlee was in. It's less than scrap now, but before it shorted out I was running some diagnostics and-"

"So what you're saying is you plugged a pokeball into the wall and set the base on fire again," Carillo interrupted him. Before Proton could protest, Decarli threw his head back and groaned.

"Come on, Proton," he railed, "we've talked about this, you can't just go messing with this stuff all willy-nilly."

"I think we should take his plug privileges away again," Forhan declared to approval from both Peng and Carillo.

"Are you _kidding_ me right now?" Proton snapped. Carillo leaned forward across the table, staring him dead in the eye as he jabbed an accusatory finger towards him.

"Someone _died_ last time," he growled, and Proton scowled.

"Oh, like that was _my_ fault," he bit back, "and if Jihiro had _any_ sense, he would have known not to use the elevator. Now shut the fuck up. I'm talking."

The others grumbled to each other for a good extra minute, but seemed to reach the unanimous decision to just get it over with. That was good. Proton could hear _all_ of them squeltching with every move, and he wasn't sure he could take such a gross noise much longer. Right after this he would head back to the dorm and change, he decided.

"Alright, whatever," prompted Heim, "tell us about this pokeball."

" _Thank you_." Proton began to disassemble the pokeball in front of them, then held up the bits and pieces that had been stressed. "So this is Pirouz's pokeball, yeah? He got it from Cipher. And when you look inside, you can tell it's been modded. That hitmonlee was way too big for normal. I think Cipher is experimentin' with modding pokeballs to enhance a pokemon's abilities."

At the very least, they seemed mildly interested by that. Kind of.

"So where does that put us?" asked Carillo.

"Well, I wasn't able to dig into their code much," Proton admitted, "and this pokeball is useless, but there have been other Cipher assholes with other weird pokemon. I want you five, specifically, to focus on weeding out more Cipher traitors. I need their pokeballs."

"I mean, that's all well and good," Peng explained, "but you know us, Lance. We don't deal with that inquisitorial shit."

"Yeah," Heim agreed, "the punishment part is more our thing."

"Too bad," Proton replied as he settled back, reassembling the pokeball despite its futility, "it's already been decided. I'm putting it in my report for the next staff meeting." There was another round of bitching and complaining, but Proton was used to that from his friends; typically, he had even been among them in the past, but now times were different. His brush with Giovanni after the hitmonlee incident had been enough to teach him that.

"Well," Decarli eventually sighed over the others, "Where do you want us to start, I guess?"

The others quieted themselves, and Proton took a deep breath and began. He described his vision, his goals; he explained to the five of them that he wanted them to start, first, with the Security department. If they had one rat, it was likely they had more, and there was no way they could get anything done like that. He wanted names, and he wanted blood. Those who could be corrected would be corrected; those who couldn't would end up scraps in the mountains for the wild pokemon.

Maybe it was all a little dramatic, but regardless, Proton felt he got his point across. When he was finished, he finally dismissed them, and while none of them were happy with the current situation, it was the bitter look on Carillo's face that really bothered Proton. He thought they were over that, but maybe not. No matter. He had other things to worry about, like changing into some dry clothes. Once the others had all left, Proton gathered his things and returned to the dorm.

When he entered, the lights were on, and something smelled _delicious_. Petrel was standing in the kitchenette with several pans going at once, and he was methodically tending to all of them. He wasn't wearing his uniform. Rather, he was wearing rainbow tie-dye pajama pants decorated with what Proton assumed to be a revival herb print, along with a baggy t-shirt that made a bad chemistry pun. He glanced up briefly as Proton came in, but quickly returned his attention to the stove.

"Shift's not over," he said, "what are doing back?"

"Night shift's not for a while, what are _you_ doing up?" Proton countered as he kicked off his boots. Petrel grimaced.

"I couldn't sleep," he admitted, "brain won't let me. I thought about popping some pills but then I'd sleep through shift, so..." He let the sentence hang, and Proton wandered around to the other side of the counter. Petrel cast another glance back at him, eying him up and down before frowning. "What's up with you, fall in the pool?"

Proton supposed he might as well be honest. "I set a computer on fire and accidentally tripped the sprinklers," he answered, and Petrel whistled his amusement.

"Hell yeah," he said, laughing, "set everything on fire."

"It's not funny," Proton pouted, though a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hey, why do we even _have_ a pool, anyways?"

"Oh, come on," Petrel said, "you know this place used to be some ski resort, right?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. It went bankrupt decades ago, closed down and everything. Madame Boss bought the property right before she took us international."

"You know, now that you mention it, that makes sense. I think I've seen the old ski lifts, before."

"How long have you been here?" Petrel asked, "like, _with us_ here? You had to have known this, right?" Proton shook his head.

"I honestly didn't," he said, "I only got recruited... four, five years ago?"

Petrel almost looked impressed. " _Really_?" he said, "that short of time, and you're already an Executive?"

"Yeah," Proton replied, "why, how long have you been here?"

Petrel paused to think. "God," he mused after a long moment of deliberation, "it's going to be twenty-seven years in July. Time flies, I guess."

"Twenty-seven _years?_ " Proton laughed, "fuck, how old _are_ you?"

"Well," Petrel said as he turned his attention back to the stove, "I'm twenty-six right now. Twenty-seven in July."

"You're shitting me."

"Hand to god."

Proton found himself staring in disbelief. He'd heard the stories, of course; everyone had heard the stories. And hell, he knew there were people who got knocked up and Rocket was their only option, so of course the stories had _some_ truth to them, but he'd never met anyone who had been born into the organization, before. They were all too rare - but then, here was Petrel, just casually dropping his heritage like it was nothing. So, of course, it was possible; Rocket had been around for a good, long while before Giovanni had taken over, and everyone knew that. If Petrel said he was second generation, then who was Proton to argue? But a hundred and one questions suddenly raced through his mind, and his curiosity piqued. What was growing up in Rocket even _like?_ Was there school, and if there was, what did they learn? And of course, there were the rumors that the second generation kids were used as the lab rattatas for all sorts of weird social experiments. Was that like a real thing?

Before Proton could ask any of the questions that were suddenly on his mind, however, Petrel changed the subject entirely. "I'm almost done cooking," he announced, "if you change into something dry and set the table, I'll fix you a plate." It smelled too good to pass up. Deciding he would be nosy later, Proton retreated to the guest room to throw his wet clothes into the hamper and change into a fresh undershirt and pants. When he returned, Petrel was busy carefully arranging the food onto a couple of plates, and Proton hurriedly found the silverware and place mats and took them to the small dining table Petrel had been able to fit to the side.

He wasn't sure what kind of food it was, but as he ate, Proton got the distinct taste of lemon and vegetables. Red peppers? Tomatoes? And the meat was some kind of bird, but it was surprisingly tender and juicy. It was one of the best things he had ever eaten, and with all the manners of a socially inept mightyena, he went to town on his plate, devouring everything Petrel had placed in front of him. Petrel, meanwhile, sat properly in his seat and took his time, deliberately cultivating bites as though it were ritual. Every now and again he would shoot Proton an odd look, but to his own credit, Proton didn't really care. He was far more concerned with whatever delicious seasoning Petrel had put in the rice, because it was orgasmic.

"Dude, holy shit," he said around a mouthful, "where did you learn to cook like this?" Petrel wrinkled his nose and grabbed a napkin, holding it out to Proton across the table.

"For the love of god, _swallow_ before you talk," he berated him. "My old man taught me when I was growing up."

Proton gratefully took the napkin and wiped his mouth as he swallowed the much-too-large bite, feeling it painfully slide down his throat. "Well, you sure know your shit," he said when his mouth was finally free, "forget Rocket, you should open a restaurant."

Petrel didn't answer, but his resting bitchface told Proton he didn't care one way or the other for the compliment. That didn't matter; this was still the best food Proton had ever tasted. He just wished it would last longer. When that thought struck him, he frowned, sitting up properly as he turned to peer into the kitchen.

"Hey," he said, "are there gonna be any left-overs?"

"Probably not," Petrel replied, "I didn't have time to go shopping, this was everything I had left in the fridge. Why do you ask?" Proton's frown deepened, and he turned back to his half-empty plate. This was too good to only eat once. It deserved an encore. That, and he was pretty sure it was better for him than another cup-a-noodles or whatever slop they had down in the mess. Without answering Petrel's question, he rose, taking his plate into the kitchenette and digging in the pantry for the tinfoil before wrapping up his leftovers and stowing them safely in the fridge. He'd bum lunch off of someone in the underground and have the leftovers for dinner, he decided. Petrel, meanwhile, seemed to lose interest in what Proton was doing as he finished his own dinner. When he was done, he rinsed his plate and set it in the dishwasher before heading to sit on the couch, and eying Proton expectantly, he patted the spot next to him. An invitation. Hesitantly, Proton found himself accepting. He took the seat next to Petrel and settled back, leaning into the armrest. When he was comfortable, Petrel reached for the remote and flipped on the news. They were covering a traffic jam in Saffron.

"Are you going to be ok while I'm gone?" Petrel asked him, "I know I'm supposed to be available to mentor you, but it's important that I'm there while Perry's out "

"Oh, yeah, I'll be fine," Proton replied. The traffic jam had apparently been caused by a pile-up. Four cars had crashed into each other and clogged up all the lanes.

"Yeah," Petrel echoed, "you've got a good head. I don't think you need me." There were ambulances and shots of covered gurneys being loaded into them.

"I appreciate that you've let me stay here," Proton said as the cameras switched back to the news anchors, "even though Boss made you."

"It's space I'm not using," Petrel dismissed. They watched quietly for a minute as the news moved onto a story about crime in Cerulean. Someone spray-painted their gang sign on the side of the Gym there. Petrel smirked.

"Hey," Proton said, "who do I go to about requisitioning furniture?"

"What, for downstairs?" Petrel asked, and Proton nodded.

"For my office," he agreed, "I need a desk. Maybe a computer."

"Talk to Archer," Petrel suggested, "he got the budget done when you were out, so he'll be able to help."

"Cool. I'll try and catch him."

It was relaxing, sitting there. After the Cerulean news it went onto a story about one of the high schools in the south-west side of Goldenrod. It was a struggling school, with below-average grades and a lack of resources and extracurriculars: Western Heights, home of the fighting ratticate. It was the school Proton had gone too. He felt himself frowning as he watched interviews with teachers he knew weren't too friendly or helpful. He'd almost made it out of there. Almost made it to Blackthorne. And now... He cast a weary, sidelong gaze at Petrel. Who'd have thought this is where he would end up?

"This is boring," he muttered, "ain't anything else on?"

"What?" said Petrel, "you aren't _enthralled_ by the problems of today's youths?

"No," Proton said flatly, "especially not in a shithole like Goldenrod." Petrel snorted and flipped through the channels.

"Nothing but kids' shows," came his lethargic bitching, "goddamn, there's never anything good on." Fed-up, he shut the TV off. "Whatever. I guess I'm gonna get ready and head in early."

"Have fun," Proton deadpanned as Petrel slowly rose to his feet and shuffled towards his bedroom. He eyed the dead face of the tv in disgust for a moment. He was never going back. Not to Goldenrod. Not ever. With a heavy sigh, he, too, rose and went back to the guest room. His uniform would take a while to dry, but it was the only one he had. After a long moment of deliberation, he took the sopping bundle out and through the kitchen to a closet where Petrel had a stacked washer-dryer setup and tossed it in. He probably wouldn't need it for a while. Instead he returned to dig through the four or five things hanging in his closet and threw his favorite old hoodie on over his undershirt, then slipped into his tattered converse at the door as he left. Petrel probably wouldn't miss him.

Archer's office was one of the many rooms Proton never had to visit, before. Even during the interview process he had only dealt with Matori and Giovanni, always in the latter's office and always under tight wraps. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he should have asked Petrel for directions, but being too stubborn to turn around and head back, Proton made the decision to show his face at the administration offices. Archer wasn't there, but one of the admins was able to point him in the direction of his office, and Proton diligently set off to find it. It didn't actually take that long, because it wasn't that far.

The office was half-way between the administration offices and Giovanni's private wing. The door, like most others in the compound, was relatively unassuming, though a brass placard hung on its front that read _Exec. Archer_ , so clearly it was the right place. Proton rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles, but even after a few seconds there was no reply. He knocked again. Nothing.

"Hey, Archer!" he called, "I gotta talk to ya, man, you in there?" He tried the door handle. Locked. He felt another pout coming on. He _really_ wanted that new computer. With a frustrated huff, he checked his pokegear. Shift still wasn't quite over. Archer was bound to be around here somewhere. Proton spun on his heel, intending to begin his search, but stopped dead in his tracks when he came face-to-face with Ariana, who was staring down at him with obvious disdain.

"...Hi?" he offered. She was much less kind.

"What are you doing, loitering around here?" she demanded, "and where's your uniform?"

"Uhh," Proton answered intelligently, "I, uh, got it wet, and - do you know where Archer is?"

"He's out," she replied sharply.

"Yeah," Proton agreed, "yeah, I can see that. That's why I'm asking you."

"Don't sass me," Ariana ordered, "you're already on thin ice, boy."

"Can you chill for like two seconds?" he asked, rolling his eyes, "You don't like me, I get it. Now where's-?" He saw her hand's sharp movements, and he cut off mid-sentence as he flinched back, but the strike never came. When he finally had the courage to crack his eyes open, Ariana was smirking down at him, her eyes sparkling with delight.

"You want to try rephrasing yourself?" she asked him sweetly. It wasn't worth the trouble, Proton decided, and though he felt meek in doing so, he obeyed Ariana's demands.

"Yes, ma'am," he grumbled, "can you help me find Archer, please? I need to requisition some furniture for my office."

"Good boy," Ariana snickered. She paused briefly to think, tapping one manicured finger against her cheek, then frowned. "Archer had to head into town. Giovanni still has him working to fix that whole bid situation for him."

"So I came here for nothing?" Proton whined, "fuckin' _hell_...!" He turned and kicked the wall. His foot still hurt from earlier, and the new kick made it worse, but he had to admit; it felt nice. Nothing was going his way, today. Well, maybe except for that nice lunch.

"Look at you, throwing a tantrum," Ariana drolled, " _completely_ befitting an executive. of course. Come on. Follow me."

"What? Why?" It was Ariana's turn to roll her eyes.

"Because I'm going to do you a favor and take care of the requisitions for you," she said as though Proton had asked the single most idiotic question in the world, "now shut up and do as you're told."

Proton sourly followed Ariana down the halls. It turned out her office wasn't so far, either. In fact, it was just outside of Giovanni's private wing, and the door was the same heavy walnut that their boss seemed to favor. Ariana unlocked the door and turned on the lights before ushering Proton in. It was relatively mundane; she had a nice desk and a fern that was much brighter than the ones in the administration offices. A large potted flower stood in the far corner under an open window, and filing cabinets lined the walls. She had a plush, deep crimson carpet covering the linoleum and the computer at her desk was one that had only been out a few months. Proton remembered drooling over it when he'd gone window-shopping with Forhan and Heim before the promotion, but it had been insanely expensive. If that was the kind of money he was going to make, now...

Ariana motioned to the chairs in front of her desk, and Proton dutifully sat. He watched as she took her time, first pausing to water the fern, then to water her flower. When she did, it began to squeak and trill, and Proton watched as it wiggled, wiggled, wiggled, and finally uprooted itself to reveal a content and smiling vileplume that nuzzled against Ariana's hand.

"I was only gone fifteen minutes, sweetie," she said with mirth to her pokemon, but pet it all the same as it continued voicing its happiness. Ariana smiled and turned to rummage through a few filing cabinets when she was done, setting in front of him a handful of papers as she took her seat. "Here's the forms," she told him in what seemed to be a much better mood, "what do you need?"

"Um, a desk," Proton answered, "like a little one. Nothing fancy. And a spare computer, if we got one."

"That should be easy to arrange," Ariana said as she filled in a few areas of the forms, "anything else?" Proton stopped to think.

"Can I get a workbench, too?" he finally asked, "I need somewhere to work with my pokeballs."

"Oh, yeah," Ariana mused, "yes, I remember Giovanni mentioning you had an interest in those. Well, we can probably get you that, too. Just sign here... and here... and write your room number here..."

Proton followed her directions, and within the half hour he had completed the forms and turned them back over. Ariana filed them in her outgoing bin.

"So is that it?" Proton asked, "was that all I needed to do?"

"You're free," Ariana replied, "though before you leave..."

"Do I have to?" Proton immediately asked, though he didn't miss the way her eyes hardened as she continued over him, and so he stuck fast in his seat.

"About these pokeballs," she said, carefully deliberating every word she picked, "what do you think of Silph's perfect capture theory?"

Proton sat for a minute in surprise. Most people had never heard of Silph's capture theories; frankly, they weren't widely available to the public, and you had to go digging for them. Excitement began to bubble up inside of him.

"Are you interested in pokeball engineering, too?" he asked eagerly, but Ariana was quick to shut him down.

"Just answer the question," she ordered. Proton took a moment to reign himself in and collect his thoughts before he did so.

"Well," he said, "I think it's an interesting idea. Maybe when technology improves a bit, it'll happen, but when you run the numbers there ain't a single way they've found, yet, that even comes close to a perfect capture rate."

"What's the highest you could engineer, now?" Ariana prodded, and again Proton mulled.

"Oohhh, probably about seventy percent?" he suggested, "maybe seventy-five if you go a little nuts."

"Hmm." Ariana was squinting suspiciously at him, and so Proton took that as his cue to expand on the subject. He began to explain what he thought, exactly, could elevate a pokeball to such a high capture rate, the different ways the parts and pieces would need to be changed, and he went on for a good, long while. Somewhere along the line he completely went off-topic and began describing, in detail, the exact function of the data compressor and its complete make-up, drawing rough diagrams and equations on Ariana's window eith a dry erase marker he somehow managed to procure. The entire time, Ariana became further and further exasperated with his rant until eventually she snapped.

"For fuck's sake, do you ever stop talking?" she demanded of him, and Proton shut his mouth long enough to look over at her, surprised.

"I thought you were interested," he said lamely, and Ariana huffed.

"I lost interest twenty minutes ago," she told him, and she marched over to throw open her office door. " _Out_. And the next time you think about bothering me-"

"I'm going!" Proton exclaimed as he took his marker and left, "and I didn't even come to bother you in the first place!" Ariana slammed the door behind him. Proton rolled his eyes. He supposed he should be grateful that she hadn't smacked him. Regardless, he got what he wanted. He may as well head back.

He didn't run into anyone on the way back to the dorm, and that was okay. He was already done with people for the day. When he finally got back, Petrel had long since left, and the mess in the kitchen had been dealt with. Proton idly pined after his leftovers, but he would have to make them last, for now. Instead, since Ariana had gotten him all fired up about it, he made his way to the desk and sat down to tinker with his pokeballs for the rest of the evening.

The week passed by relatively slowly. Proton spent his time working with his crew, trying to get them ready to begin digging through the security division's personnel files. It wasn't something they broadcast by any means, remaining strictly between the six of them no matter how much they moaned and groaned about it. Most of the prisoners in their blocks had to be shuffled around to some of the other admins, and that had lowered morale quite a bit; however, he liked to remind his admins, whatever chance he got, that a raise was coming in their futures, and they were more than willing to bite the bait. Within just a few days, resilience turned to grudging acceptance, and finally to a sort of determination. Even Carillo was beginning to heed him. Things were starting to turn around. Soon enough, Proton found himself able to take a step back and allow them to work on their own, and that was when the inquisition officially began.

While his crew was busy sticking their noses firmly into everyone else's business, Proton made time to retreat to his office on the daily. It wasn't long until his desk and chair showed up, and only a few days later for his computer and workbench. Until then, Proton spent his time organizing the shelves of junk until everything was either tossed, stripped, or sorted just the way he liked it, and when everything was finally settled, he designated a shelf unit for his pokeball project and brought all of his pieces, bits, bobs, and blueprints down to keep them safely stashed away. A few admins came by every day once he had his computer, and for an hour or two taught him some of the basic, if outdated code their internal systems seemed to run on, and Proton had even been able to set some of their hackers onto liberating some literature on pokeball programming.

Things were starting to look Proton's way, especially at the staff meeting that next Monday when he recounted all of that information to Giovanni.

"You've been busy," said their boss, who had only recently returned from a business meeting on the far side of the region and was wearing a crisp, clean civvie suit for the occasion, "It's good to see you taking that initiative."

Archer, who had also returned from Goldenrod just hours before their meeting and was in a suit of his own, mirrored Giovanni's smile. "I think we're all quite impressed with how quickly Proton's begun to prove himself. Though, I'm not entirely sure about going out of your way to dig for Cipher moles - Master Giovanni did say it was a non-starter after all."

"It's better to start with a clean slate," Ariana disagreed with her brother, no matter how painful it seemed for her to side with Proton, "less to worry about in the future, sends a good message to the grunts." Petrel, who had seemingly fallen asleep on the conference table minutes ago, grunted what Proton had only been able to take as approval. He beamed brightly at the Boss and the others. Damn right, he could pull his weight. And it had been a much better show than last time.

"Well," Giovanni said as he checked his watch, "I have another meeting for the Gym Leader summit this evening, so I can't remain long. Anything someone else wants to add before we adjourn?"

"Yes," Archer said, "I forgot to mention earlier - as you know, the Goldenrod bids -"

"That you still haven't fixed?" Giovanni flatly interrupted, and Archer forced a smile.

"Yes, Sir, those are the ones," he agreed, "I'm afraid there's no helping the situation through civilized means. I would like to send Petrel to take care of the problem directly."

Giovanni considered that for a moment and then threw the straw wrapper from his iced cappuccino at Petrel's head, where it bounced comically off and fell to the floor. Petrel didn't move. Giovanni rolled his eyes and reached over to _slam_ one hand on the table in front of him.

"Oh, god, I'm awake!" Petrel blurted as he shot upright, one of the papers from his reports sticking to his face. Giovanni smiled.

"Glad you could join us," he jabbed, "can you repeat what was just said?" Petrel stared helplessly at him through bleary eyes.

"I dunno," he said eventually, "that Goldenrod thing?" Archer face-palmed.

"What about it?" Giovanni pressed.

" _Sir..."_

 _"What about it, Petrel?"_

Petrel sighed and rubbed his eyes as he leaned back into his chair. "I dunno, Archer wants me to drive into town and make some guy disappear or some shit. Please be kind, Sir, I've been up for over two days, now." Giovanni scoffed.

"Well then you should probably be _sleeping_ ," he told him, "so you can take care of this _very important_ issue. Go on. Go." He dismissed Petrel with a wave of his hand, who gave a mighty yawn as he shambled out the door without a single argument.

"That was everything, I believe," Archer said once Petrel had left, and Giovanni nodded.

"Then that's that," he announced, "I'll leave for the Plateau, and Archer and Ariana, you two are in charge until I come back. Don't let me down." The three remaining executives rose as he rose, and stood at attention until he was out of the room. When they were left alone, Ariana turned towards Archer and spoke as though Proton wasn't even there.

"Hey, Bro, I actually have to head out, too," she said, "they need me at the Celadon compound. You know how it is." She reached to give him an affectionate peck on the cheek and patted his shoulder. "Can you handle it without me?"

"I'll manage somehow," Archer sighed melodramatically, "go on, then. Enjoy yourself while you're there." With one last hug, the twins separated, and Ariana, too, left. With just the two of them, Archer turned towards Proton and smiled approvingly.

"You're doing very well," he commented, "we all meant that, you know. Even her. Walk with me?"

"Thanks," Proton said as he fell in step beside Archer, "though, I don't think Ariana likes me very much."

"No," Archer agreed, thoroughly amused, "she thinks you're just some sadistic punk. And maybe you are. But, as Master Giovanni said, you have that kind of initiative we rarely see around here."

"I'm gonna be honest," Proton admitted, "I'm not sure ya guys look very hard."

"Maybe not." They paused outside of Archer's office, and he unlocked the door and let Proton in as he turned on the lights. For a second, Proton almost thought they had gone to the wrong place. Archer's office was almost the mirror image of Ariana's, and as far as Proton could tell, the main difference was Archer's things were a little bit older, there were no plants, potted or otherwise, in sight, and the carpet under Archer's desk was a deep, calming indigo.

As Proton took the seat in front of Archer's desk, Archer kept himself busy with filing his reports before he turned and took a pokeball off his belt, decompressing it as he engaged the release mechanism. Energy burst forth from the pokeball and materialized itself into the shape of a sleek houndoom, who shook himself and sneezed when the process finished.

"Hello, sweet puppy," Archer crooned as he knelt next to his dog, "that was a long trip, wasn't it? Yes, it was." Proton watched on, amused, as Archer spoiled the dog with pets and kisses before directing him to the large, plush pokemon bed in the corner, and tail wagging, the houndoom went to lay down, his big brown eyes never leaving Archer's form.

"So you're a dog person?" Proton snickered.

"Obviously," Archer replied with a laugh, "no, I _detest_ cats. So... _disloyal_. Dogs, on the other hand, never an issue. Isn't that right, Coyote?" The houndoom raised his head replied with a happy boof. "What about you?"

"I don't really care either way," Proton said, "I'm not really into common pets like that."

"Oh?" Archer prompted, "so what do you keep, then?"

Proton pulled his own pokeball off his belt and released his little zubat, who immediately hopped onto Proton's lap and climbed up his uniform to cling to his chest and take a nap.

"This is Twitch," Proton introduced as he scratched his little buddy's ears, "not much for a fight, but useful in his own way. Now." He leaned forward as Archer hopped up into his own seat. "I know you didn't bring me here just to talk about our pokemon. What's up?"

"Don't be so serious," Archer chuckled, "I was just going to ask, how would you feel about your own dorm?"

His _own_ dorm? Proton settled back as he considered it. Yeah. Giovanni had just kind of decided to stick him with Petrel for a little while. It must have been a bit of a burden. It'd be a good idea to look into moving out eventually, right? And so Proton smiled. "That'd be great," he replied, "be nice to have my own space for once."

"And get away from _him_ no doubt," Archer sympathized, though Proton wasn't really sure if that was fair. Petrel may not have been around too often, and once or twice they may have butted heads, but he wasn't _that_ bad. Was he? Either way, Proton decided not to comment as Archer helped him fill out the forms and printed him off his new room assignment.

"It'll be a day or two before it's ready, but you'll receive a runner when you can get in," Archer told him before he left, "you won't be too far from mine, actually, so if you ever need anything..."

They made a bit more small talk before Proton finally left, and since he didn't have to worry too much about either of his divisions, he found himself returning to Petrel's dorm. He figured it would be a good idea to start packing his things - and frankly, he kind of wanted a quick nap before he had to do anything. Petrel was laying on the couch again when he arrived, staring at the ceiling with drooping eyelids and bloodshot eyes.

"Why aren't you at work?" he asked, voice half-slurred with sleep. Proton grinned as he kicked off his boots.

"Came to freshen up," he said, "hey, guess what-" He took a step forward into the den and stopped immediately when his foot went into something squishy and a little bit _slimy_. "Oh, shit!" he immediately said and kicked his foot to try and get it off, "ew, ew, ew, what the hell!" Something pink went flying across the room and splatted into the wall. Petrel immediately shot up.

"Be _careful_!" he cried, as he shuffled over to the goop, "Jesus fuck! Helix, sweetheart, are you okay?" The goop squeaked in reply as it slowly slid down the wall. Petrel whined as he reached out to gently peel it off. "You could have hurt him, idiot! Watch where you're fucking walking!"

"I'm sorry, okay?" Proton replied as he continued trying to shake the slime off of his leg, "what the hell _is_ that?" Petrel turned, goop in hand, and proudly presented it to him.

"It's _Helix_ ," he said, "he's my ditto." Proton could see it, then; the beady black eyes and the strange gloopy smile in the translucent pink slime. For real?

"I thought those were just conspiracy theories," he mused as Petrel settled back into the couch. Helix, once freed from Petrel's grip, began oozing his way around Petrel's chest.

"Anyways," Petrel said after they watched the ditto for a while, "what were you saying?" Oh, yeah. Proton made his way further into the den to sit on the couch, drawing his legs up as he grinned.

"Archer said I could get my own place, now!" he announced, "said everyone was impressed enough that I don't need supervision anymore, helped me with the paperwork and everything." Petrel only stared, and Proton's smile began to falter. "That's... I mean, that's good, y'know? I'll be outta your hair, soon."

"You're really that excited?" Petrel pushed, and Proton nodded.

"Yeah," he affirmed, "why wouldn't I be?" And in that moment something changed. Petrel's stony expression, the cold aura he was suddenly giving off, the abrupt way he stood...

"Of course you would, wouldn't you?" he bit out, "I mean, why the fuck would you want to stay here? Whatever, I don't care. Don't bother me."

"Petrel," Proton called after him as he retreated to his room, but Petrel didn't stop or acknowledge him. "Come on, don't be a dick." The door slammed shut. Proton rolled his eyes, supposing that it was for the best. This was the sort of behavior he realized he was anxious to get away from: unpredictability. As far as he could tell, there was no knowing what would set Petrel off and what wouldn't, and it seemed to change by the day. This was just the next step in assuring his continued mental health. It turned out Archer had a point, after all.

"Whatever," he grumbled to the empty room, "come on, Twitch. Let's start packing." With his zubat still clinging to his uniform shirt, Proton returned to the guest room and set to work packing everything he owned.

Petrel didn't talk to him over the next few days. Proton thought he would have welcomed the quiet, but instead it simply put him on edge. What had happened? What did he _do?_ There were fleeting moments when they would bump into each other and Proton would think he saw something seething behind Petrel's intense stare, but maybe it was a trick of the light; he would blink, and the foreign nothingness in those dark pits would resume. Eventually came the day for Proton to move out. A few grunts came to take his things for him again、 and he was just in the process of scrounging up the last of his clothes when there was a small knock on the guest room door. Petrel, dressed in inconspicuous street clothes, was leaning against the door frame when Proton turned around.

"Hey," Proton greeted, "you heading out for the job?"

"Yeah," Petrel agreed, "I've got a long way to go so I can't be too long. Do you need help before I go?"

"No, some grunts moved my shit already," Proton told him. They lapsed into silence for a minute.

"Hey, look," Petrel eventually said, "while I'm gone, can you do me a favor and just check up on the dorm for me? Make sure everything is ok?"

"Sure," Proton said, "I'll see you around?" He held out his hand. Petrel stared at it uncertainly, but slowly reached out to shake it. Proton smirked.

"Talk to Bernard if you need anything," Petrel told him, "see you later." His grip lingered for a second longer, but with that, Petrel was out the door. Proton watched him go, then returned to bagging the last of his clothes. This was it - his big mile marker. He was moving on up in the world, and he could smell the paycheck from there. He took care to turn off the lights and lock the door as he left Petrel's dorm and took his time strolling towards his new room. Like much of everything else, the door was cookie-cutter and inconspicuous, but it was his, and Proton beamed as he approached it. It was time to finally begin.

He took a deep breath and pushed through the door, letting it swing gently shut behind him.


	10. Convergence: Ruined Plans

**Disclaimer: I am not, now have I ever been, a disclaimer.**

 **A/N: I just wanted to take a moment and thank everyone who's been reviewing! It always brightens up my day when I see a new review in my feed, and I appreciate that you all are enjoying my story so much. :D**

It was a much smaller dorm than Proton had been expecting. Petrel's had been more like a suite or some sort of posh apartment; two rooms, two bathrooms, a decently sized den and a kitchenette to match. Compared to the old camper Proton had lived in with his mother, it had practically been a palace. This new dorm was more like a grunt dorm or a studio apartment. One big, open space, and one itty bitty bathroom. There was one double bed waiting for him the day he moved in, along with one bedside table, a small dresser, and an equally small closet. That was fine; it was more than enough space for his single uniform and his few civilian clothes. He also had no kitchen, though he really didn't have any idea how to cook. Archer had been nice enough to have someone put in a mini fridge and a microwave for him, so it wasn't much of a problem.

Despite all of this, its small size and single occupant, it felt... _empty_. It was still when Proton woke, without the smell of freshly brewed coffee or the sounds of Petrel preparing for the day. Far too still. He didn't have a TV, so as he dressed himself and tried to tame his hair, he couldn't even have the white noise of the news on in the background. The only thing to break the monotony was Twitch, who flew in through the window not long after Proton woke up and decided to hang from the rod in the closet to settle down for sleep. Proton gave him a nice, long scratch behind the ears before zipping up his uniform shirt and jamming his cap tightly on over his hair. He was eager to get out and have some fun, for once. His team was operating on their own, and he was finally able to turn his attention to his projects. All he would have to do was drop in to make sure everyone was on-task, and then he could spirit himself away to his office and begin work trying to salvage code from Pirouz's broken pokeball. He checked his watch - it was still early. Just enough time to go check on Petrel's dorm like he'd promised.

It was almost a little bittersweet to return to Petrel's dorm. The walk wasn't quite foreign to him, yet; his feet moved on their own as he retraced his steps from the previous night, his mind lost to his plans for the day. He nodded a greeting to a few patrolling sentries as they passed each other by and paused briefly to unlock Petrel's door. He wondered how much longer he would have access; probably only until Petrel returned, he reasoned.

The darkness of the dorm was both surprising and expected. It was strange for everything to be off, and Proton could remember quite clearly the light always on the kitchen in the mornings and evenings. It was colder than usual, too. He wished he had brought his jacket with him, because it felt like the heat wasn't even on, at all. He paused briefly at the door to kick off his shoes in the empty space, then quickly looked through the kitchen appliances to make sure what needed to be off was off. When everything was accounted for, he pushed further into the den.

It was probably the first time Proton had spent any real time perusing Petrel's things. The books along the shelves next to the desk were overwhelmingly related to medicine. There were a lot of books with obscure titles he couldn't pronounce, languages he couldn't read. How pretentious. There was an entire bookcase dedicated to notebooks and binders that apparently dated back as far as ten years; at the top shelf were well-worn binders, labeled clearly with the others' names, Giovanni's among them. A much newer binder was at the end of the line, "Proton" written across it in bold black marker. Curiously, Proton reached to take it off the shelf and began to flip through. There were dates, notes scrounged from his previous trips to the infirm with Petrel's torchic-scratch covering the pages. Every now and then Proton would see more of the foreign languages scribbled into the margins with arrows drawn to their associated weren't many pages filed, but the most recent one was from the hitmonlee incident, with a page of write-ups and a crude diagram of Proton's injury. Clearly, Petrel wasn't much of an artist. Proton put the folder up. His eyes lingered on the others' folders until finally, he turned towards the rest of the room.

Books weren't the only form of entertainment Petrel had; there were VHS tapes and a few DVDs on some of the lower shelves, but what Proton was particularly drawn to was the Playstation tucked neatly away in the TV stand. Petrel had a handful of games that Proton only barely recognized. There was one he knew was about some epic quest to find four elements and save the world, and another whose box he had to study long and hard to understand. It apparently had something to do with rolling things up. There were some fighting games, some racing games, and a couple more games that also seemed to have to do with epic quests. But in a place of honor and on its own shelf to boot was a game that looked to be about raising virtual pets, seeming an awful lot like mutated pokemon, and upon further inspection, Proton found the box to currently be empty. It must have been in the playstation, he reasoned. He wondered if Petrel would ever let him try playing.

When he had seen enough of the den, Proton decided to check Petrel's bedroom, but unfortunately, the door was locked. He gave up jiggling the handle pretty quickly and began to return to the front door, pausing as his eyes fell upon the guest room. After a moment of deliberation, he approached, pushing the door gently open to peer inside. Not a lot had changed, to be honest. It was still mostly crowded with Petrel's library overflow, but somehow seemed empty without Proton's few things inside. He pursed his lips as he eyed the bare mattress and pillow, further as he looked upon the now-unused desk. It shouldn't matter. He had his own dorm, now. He was happy. Or, he would be, once he settled in. Yeah. Got used to the solitude of his tiny new dorm. After all those years of putting up with his squad's noise, having his own space was a good change of pace. He quickly shut the door and left Petrel's apartment, taking care to lock it behind him.

There was a fresh stack of paperwork waiting at his inbox when Proton arrived downstairs, and instead of secluding himself in his office to work as he had originally planned, he took as much as he could carry to the break room, where he claimed his usual seat at the tall table and began to work. It was budget stuff - _yuck_ \- but if they wanted supplies that year, it needed to be done.

"Hey, Proton," Heim greeted as he passed by her, and Proton nodded warmly to her in return.

"Hey, Heim," he replied, "you free? I need someone to start a report on the inquisition." Heim grimaced.

"Can't you get one of the new guys to do it?" she asked, "I'm meeting Peng here to coordinate our dip into the ground-floor sentries."

"I thought I put Carillo on that."

"He said he needed to deal with the wall sentries." Proton heaved a gigantic sigh and ran a hand through the ends of his hair.

"Yeah, alright," he said tiredly, "maybe I can get Decarli to do it. He's such a push-over."

"Decarli's out," Heim told him.

"What do you _mean_ he's out?" Proton demanded, and Heim shrugged.

"He said he was taking the day off. Something about that girl he met in Vermillion," she offered, and again, Proton sighed.

"Fuck me," he grumbled, "it's like you idiots _want_ Boss to crack down on us."

"It's just one day," Heim reminded him, but Proton scoffed.

"One day is all it fuckin' takes. Now go on. Get to work."

"I remember when you used to be fun," Heim lamented as she hopped to her feet and headed out the door. Proton only grumbled in reply. Maybe this was why Petrel was always a pain in the ass. Maybe flippant grunts and admins were the problem. He'd probably ask him about that when he got back.

In the meantime, Proton tried his best to focus on his paperwork, but it was difficult. There was nothing he could imagine that would be more boring and dry than trying to figure out all of this finance taurosshit; it wasn't that it was difficult, though. The math was easy enough, simple formulas that Proton could have followed in his sleep. It was really the content, the _tediousness_ that did him in, and he frequently found himself becoming distracted by random, extraneous events arouns him. Desta came in without Shufen. She'd caught a cold. Proton asked her if they needed anything while she got better, spent maybe fifteen minutes talking with Desta about weird home remedies his mom used to make for him, and maybe they would make Shufen feel better, too. She left eventually, and Proton got hungry. He tried to get some shrimp snacks out of the vending machine but they got stuck, so he spent more time trying to shake them out. Carillo showed up wanting snacks, too, and the two of them worked together to shake the machine until finally the bag fell. Proton ate his shrimp snacks, Carillo got his cream bread, and everyone was happy. Or, as happy as Proton could be with that stack of paperwork still staring at him. He couldn't stay here. The break room was too distracting. This was why he got an office in the first place - he may as well head back.

It was, at the very least, empty; no grunts or admins to talk to or free tasty snacks with. All Proton needed to do was find his motivation and he would breeze through the rest of the papers by the time shift ended. Taking a seat at his desk, he booted his computer and scrounged through the drawer for something interesting. Maybe one day there would be something useful, but for now, all Proton could find were the few chips he'd managed to salvage from Pirouz' broken pokeball. That was it. That was his out. Carefully, Proton connected the chips to his computer and ran a program to rip and save whatever information had survived. While it ran, Proton turned back to his papers and set to work, mindfully watching the progress bar out of the corner of his eye.

His paperwork went pretty quickly after that. Somehow, once his hand got moving, it was that much easier to stomach the boring text and even easier to scrawl out his reports. All the while, code flew by on his screen. There were large chunks missing, strings and functions calling on other strings and functions that not longer existed, and errors printed in bold red text. Every now and then, when Proton glanced up to fully gauge the process, he would see bits and pieces of things he sort of recognized. Some code was related to the compression mechanism, which was probably the piece he was most familiar with, having researched its science once for a project in high school. Was it science fair? He paused to think. Must have been. That headhunter from Blackthorne Uni had seen it. That was where his scholarship had come from. Melancholy draped over him like a heavy blanket. Things seemed so much brighter those days. He wondered if, in another universe, he went. If things would have turned out any better than throwing it all away to come here.

The beginnings of his spiral were cut short when another broken piece of code scrolled by. Proton frowned and leaned forward, studying it closely as it approached the top of the screen. Something was wrong. The decryption process, unfortunately, locked him out of the rest of the software, and he wasn't sure if he was willing to halt the entire process. It would vanish through the top if the screen before long, and then... well, then he would have to wait. Proton quickly looked around his desk for a notebook, a loose sheet of paper, _anything_ he could write on, but came up short, and the code was rapidly advancing up the screen. He didn't have time to go off and find any.

This was happening _now_.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the top sheet of his paperwork and vigorously began transcribing the strange code into the margins, finishing just after the last line of the fragmented function disappeared. Proton sat back when he was finished, frowning as he raised the paper to the light to study it. The function was supposed to call on a string of numbers, but there was another bit of function, crude-looking and out of place. Proton couldn't imagine anyone at Silph had done this. It looked like something he or one of his classmates would have done in high school. There had been no comments, but whether or not that had been die to the severe data loss from the pokeball's meltdown remained to be seen. Proton squinted.

"It's a trainer number," he suddenly realized, speaking to the air and leaning forward again as he nearly pressed his nose to the paper. "So that means _this_ is..." Abruptly, he shot straight up, jumping to his feet and sprinting out of his office, the rest of his paperwork forgotten in his mad dash upstairs.

Archer was surprised when he answered Proton's persistent knock, for a minute simply taking in his heaving chest and wind-blown hair before standing aside to let him into his office. Proton plopped down into the guest seat almost immediately as he tried to catch his breath.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Archer asked him as he resumed his own seat behind his desk.

"Cipher," Proton managed between gasps, "they - they're doin' somethin' weird with their pokeballs - got the code!" He waved the paperwork in front of him and dropped it onto Archer's desk unceremoniously.

"Would you like some water?" Archer asked, ignoring the paper entirely, and before Proton could so much as nod yes, he whirled around in his chair to dig through his mini-fridge. What Proton caught glimpses of were a little bit surprising: with the few waters and what appeared to be Archer's lunch were tall cans of energy drinks and very unhealthy-looking microwavable snacks. Before he could comment, it was shut, and Archer passed him the water bottle. Proton cracked it open and began chugging as Archer finally took the sheet and eyed the code Proton had written down.

"I'll be honest," he admitted after a second, "I'm not quite sure what I'm looking at." He paused again, scrutinizing the paper before rolling his eyes. "Well, besides your finance report, anyways. You know I need it _today_ , right?"

Proton resumed his gasping as he finally put the water down, slowly regaining his breath. "I'll fix it later," he promised, "that's part of a call function that's supposed to identify a trainer code."

"And?" Archer prompted, "I assure you, we were all well-aware that trainers from Orre had license numbers."

"No, no, no - I mean, yes, but _no_." Proton leaned forward, motioning to the various bits of the code as he hastened to explain. "They've altered the code to _avoid_ checking for an OT number and to register a dummy ID instead. I think - I think they're _bypassing_ the antitheft."

Archer's frown deepened and he looked back down at the code. "Bypassing it?" he repeated, "what, you mean they're using _pokeballs_ to steal pokemon?"

"Exactly!" Proton cried. He leaped to his feet and reached for Archer's pen so he could explain _properly_ , but Archer seemed to sense what was coming and quickly pulled all of his things out of reach.

"Well, this is an interesting discovery," he continued, "I'm sure Master Giovanni will be keen to hear your take on the matter. Now, is that all?"

Is that all? Is that _all?_ Proton scowled. He wanted to grab Archer, to shake him. This was important information. If Cipher could bypass the antitheft (with such a crude, unrefined workaround to boot!) then quite clearly it meant they had some vague notion of how to mod a pokeball. There was no telling what else they would do. And of course, this was far from _everything_ strange about the stupid thing; there was still the matter of the intentionally warped guts, not to mention that huge fucking hitmonlee. The larvitar, too. Something was up. Cipher was doing something big. Proton didn't know what, yet, but it would come with time, and it would _especially_ come with more research into their strange pokeballs. If only he had _more_ of them.

But he didn't say any of this to Archer. There was no proof. Just his hunch. Shoulders sagging, Proton had to admit defeat, if only for now. "Yeah. That's all," he grudgingly replied. Archer nodded in satisfaction and stood, motioning Proton towards the door.

"Wonderful," he said, "I'm sure your follow-up to this will be interesting, indeed. Unfortunately, I have to do, so..."

"Yeah, whatever," Proton huffed, "see ya." Archer pushed him out and shut the door behind him with an audible _click_. Proton didn't need him, anyways.

When he got back to his office, it was to the sight of his computer's blue screen of death, and with a hearty groan, he forced an unexpected reboot. Talk about bad luck. Deciding it better not to try using those stupid damaged pokeball chips again, Proton merely settled back into his paperwork groove and filled out as much as he could before shift ended. It was mundane, monotonous; he barely remembered half of it. All the while, his eyes would flicker to the half-burnt pokeball guts, and his mind raced in every attempt to discern the significance of that shoddy code.

When shift was finally over, Proton went to drop his paperwork off in Archer's bin, then took his time strolling back to the sixth floor. There had to be an easy way to smoke out a few more Cipher moles. Pirouz couldn't have been the last one, could he? Proton had thought that maybe when he set his inquisition in motion, there would be idiots scrambling to hide their tracks, but maybe getting sloppy and fucking up, too. He'd imagined they would have already had at least one by now. He didn't know what, exactly, Giovanni might have been expecting of it all, but that would have at least been a good start, right? But they hadn't even caught one damn traitor yet.

When Proton finally looked up from his feet, he had to stop and do a quick double-take. In his obliviousness, his feet had steered him back to Petrel's dorm instead of his own. It was a familiar door; it was comforting. If Petrel had been there, maybe Proton could have asked his opinion. He'd lived here a long, long time, after all. Maybe he knew some tricks the old guard used to smoke the traitors out. At the very least, maybe he would have made dinner, and at that moment, Proton's stomach was protesting loudly. Well... Petrel _had_ asked him to check up on it, after all.

The first thing Proton did when he entered was to remove his shoes by the door, then to beeline for the fridge. There were a couple tupperware containers full of leftovers, and Proton's eyes brightened as he pulled one out that seemed to be full of cabbage rolls and chicken. He heated it up for a few minutes in the microwave and then headed into the den, plopping down on the couch as he flipped on the TV. There was some dumb soap playing, and he was too lazy to change the channel. That was fine. He stayed there for a long time, even after his dinner was finished, watching TV and pretending Petrel was just holed up in his room. He didn't want to go back to that small, cold little dorm Archer had stuck him in. He didn't want to be _alone_. Not again. If it hadn't been for his zubat, Proton probably would have stayed there all night. Instead, knowing poor, little Twitch needed him, Proton eventually turned everything off and headed home to snuggle with his little buddy until he fell asleep.

The next day was much of the same, and so was the day after that. Proton woke up, got dressed, and checked on Petrel's dorm, the headed downstairs to direct his admins and take care of the paperwork. Peng claimed that he was hot on the trail of a filthy traitor, but he also believed the chupacabra lived somewhere in the mountains around HQ, so who knew with him. Otherwise, Decarli was being pretty productive, and Forhan and Heim had cleared all of their camera watchmen. Carillo was still checking the wall sentries. Everything was going according to plan, and Proton couldn't have been more bored if he'd been tied to a chair and forced to watch a chick flick. He milled around his office doing paperwork on autopilot, waiting for maybe a single damn measure of good news, and at the end of the day, he would pack up and spend the evening watching TV on Petrel's couch before finally returning to his own dorm late into the night.

After maybe the fourth or fifth day of the horrible monotony, something crashed into the routine. It was maybe three in the morning, and Proton had been tossing and turning in his bed. The dorm was so small. He felt like he was suffocating. He could only fit one of him between the bed and the fsr wall. This was clearly not a dorm meant for an extended stay, even though he was sure the admin barracks had been roughly the same size, with even _more_ people stuffed into them. Fuck. He needed room to breathe. And as Proton was contemplating this fact, there came a buzzing from the overturned box he was currently using as a night stand. With a groan, he dangled his arm over to grab his pokegear, resting his chin om the edge of the mattress as his eyes burned in the screen's light. It was a text message. His eyes drifted over the words, brightening as he pushed himself up just a little bit more.

 _[Petrel]_

 _Back in town. Too much coffee. TV?_

Quickly, Proton tapped out his reply.

 _C=C=(•ー•_ _)_

He rolled out of bed, paused to stretch and work the kinks out of his neck, then pulled on a t-shirt and wandered out of his room and down to Petrel's. He didn't know why the prospect was so entertaining to him. It's not like he and Petrel had gotten on the best, before. But... somehow, the prospect of hanging out and watching TV with him at three in the morning wan enticing. He didn't bother knocking when he arrived, merely let himself in, and Petrel looked over from the couch when he entered.

"Eeeeyyy," Petrel said, raising a glass of wine as Proton approached, "I'm back, bitch! Thanks for watching the place while I was gone."

"Yeah, no problem," Proton replied, leaning over the back of the couch, "how'd it go, anyways?"

"Like shit!" Petrel announced with a laugh, "but I got the deed, man. Target's still alive, but overall I'd say mission success. Check it out." Proton followed his directions to the TV screen, where the news was playing a story on the robbery of the man who'd beaten Archer out om the Goldenrod bid. He was some old, fat bureaucrat with a wart, and Proton's nose wrinkled at the sight of him. But he was giving a description of the person who had assaulted him and... Across the screen, a sketch that looked suspiciously like Petrel appeared. Petrel laughed aloud again. " _Shit!_ Archer's not gonna like that. I'm fucked."

"Giovanni, either," Proton agreed. He went to raid the fridge for one of the beers he'd left in there, then returned to plop down next to Petrel. "You gonna be alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Petrel chuckled, "this isn't my first rodeo. I figure worst case, Boss kicks my ass around his office for a few minutes. Dunno what they're gonna do about that idiot living, but it's not my problem anymore."

"Yeah," Proton agreed, "I feel bad for the poor fuck who's gotta clean this mess up."

"Dude, they're gonna be fucked just as bad. Bet you anything he hires a couple bodyguards after this. Hey!" Petrel shifted in his seat, turning his attention fully to Proton. "Listen, I was thinking about marathoning a few movies Thursday night. You wanna come hang?"

"Yeah?" Proton pressed, "what's brought this on, all of a sudden?"

"I dunno." Petrel shrugged. "You've moved out. It'll be weird if you're not here eating my food from time to time. I kinda got used to it."

"You know, it's weird. Me too." Proton shook his head. "What the hell? Let's do it. Thursday can be movie night from now on."

His phone chimed again. Frowning, Proton looked down. It was a number he wasn't familiar with. Petrel, om the other hand, despite having no understanding of boundaries or personal space, recognized it immediately.

"Oh, shit, Archer's messaging you," he said, "I didn't know he had your number.

 _[Archer]_

 _Did you see the news?_

"You better answer him," Petrel advised. and Proton hastened to do just that.

 _Yeah. Why?_

 _You need to finish the job_.

" _Shit_ ," Proton swore.

"What?" Petrel pressed.

"He's sending me to Goldenrod," Proton answered, then paused to skim another new message. "Fuck me! He wants me to off the guy, he's sending me off first thing!"

"Oh, come on," Petrel whined, "Thursday's movie night, I've got _Men In Black_ and everything!"

"Well who's fucking fault is it?!" Proton snapped in reply, shoving himself to his feet. "Thanks to your incompetent ass I've got to go clean this shit up! Fucking hell, I don't want to go to Goldenrod!" Viciously, he snapped his gear shut and continued to swear colorfully under his breath.

"Oh, come on, it sucks, but don't be such a drama queen. You're a big boy, Proton. You can handle a couple cops."

"This isn't about the cops, dammit."

Petrel frowned. His usual plastic expression had been replaced by one of vague interest, but damn if Proton spilled put his soul to him. He didn't need to know where Proton's burning hatred of Goldenrod came from. No one needed to know. All anyone needed to know was Proton would rather shoot himself in the crotch than go back to Goldenrod under any willing circumstance. Unfortunately, when Team Rocket was involved, there was rarely such a thing as _willing_.

"Whatever," he grumbled as he straightened himself and headed for the door, "I'm gonna go see how he wants me to handle it."

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," Petrel called after him. Not for the first time, Proton considered throwing something at him.

This was gonna suck.


	11. Claustrophobic

**Disclaimer: Every time you disclaim, a doggo gets its wings.**

Goldenrod was dark. Sure, there were yellowed street lights on every few feet, open apartment windows shining out into the night, the bright neon signs of bars, clubs, and shops open late, and it was certainly a busy city, one that never slept. The sky, however, was starless. The glow of the light pollution choked the inky darkness, faint highlights on the edge of the eye. Something about the cold seemed to make the light just a little bit brighter. Proton pulled his old hoodie tighter around his shoulders, fidgeting as he felt the sleeves of his uniform and his jacket rubbing and pulling uncomfortably against each other. His hat was jammed tight over his hair, and his hood pulled up over his hat. Maybe it wasn't the most inconspicuous thing in the world, but Archer had sent him out on such short notice that Proton frankly hadn't been sure if there had been any other options. He didn't exactly have a ton of casual clothes to wear out, and wasn't willing to be spotted in anything he could potentially end up wearing out for drinks later. So he crouched there in the dark back alley, eyes trained carefully on the expensive hotel across the street, hoping no one looked hard enough into the shadows to see him.

The bureaucrat Archer had sent him after was supposed to be staying somewhere in there. There was no word on whether or not he'd moved hotels or even rooms after Petrel's assault on him, no information on who he might have hired as a bodyguard or if he had hired anyone at all. Proton was running in blind, all at the whim of some asshole who couldn't be bothered to take care of his own problem. Archer was the one who lost the bid in the first place. And didn't he oversee the espionage division? He was clearly the better choice, and if Petrel had been in Rocket as long as he had, certainly he could take over the day-to-day monotony for a little while. This should have been Archer's job; Proton shouldn't have been anywhere near this. And yet, here he was. All he could do was lie in wait, watching for some sign as he gnawed viciously at his fingernails. He didn't know how this would end. All he could do was play to his strengths and hope for the best. What were his strengths, again? He had a knife. Two knives? Maybe three. He fidgeted on the spot, feeling for their weight. Yeah. Definitely at least two. And he had Twitch. Twitch couldn't see for shit, but at least could spot shape. Movement. He would be a good watchdog. Oh, yeah. He knew the city, too. He knew the city very, _very_ well. That was something.

Anxiously, Proton shifted on the balls of his feet. He used to walk through this part of town, a long time ago. It had been a while, but he still remembered it like it was yesterday: wandering the streets after school, trying to find ways to stay out just a little bit longer. Getting lost in the alleys. When he was older, getting into trouble. That was how all this Rocket shit started, wasn't it? The wrong trouble with the wrong guys. Pickpocketed an admin, didn't realize it at the time. Ran like hell, but chased down like a rabid growlithe. Ran right behind that hotel, come to think of it. Right passed the fire escape.

 _The fire escape_.

Proton felt himself perk up at the thought. It should have been obvious, some part of him berated himself, but at least it was a start. Waiting until the coast was clear, Proton dashed across the street, scampering through another alley until he came out behind the hotel. There it was, just like he remembered; right by the dumpster. It was a little older, maybe a bit rustier than he recalled, but that was fine. Carefully, he clambored up onto the dumpster, and then balancing precariously on its edge, stretched up to grab hold of the ladder. With a huff of exertion, he pulled himself up, scrabbling until his boots found the bottom rung and he began his climb. He made it up about four stories when he spotted an open window, and figuring it was just as good as any other, he sidled over and slid quietly in. The TV was playing and the shower was running. Someone was in for the night. Mouth firmly shut, Proton tiptoed across the room and let himself out into the hallway. Yeah. It was definitely a good start.

The hallway was long and narrow, lined with a plush, luxurious-looking carpets and light sconces every few feet along the walls. Though there were plenty of doors, some with lights on and some without, there wasn't a single other soul in sight as ge tiptoed towards the far end of the hall. Alright. Step one complete. Now all he had to do was find the guy and take him out. Srcher had given him a name, so at least he wasn't flying completely blind. But how would he even find this Mouri guy's room, anyways? It's not like there was a sign. They had to have a guest list _somewhere_ , though... Grudgingly, Proton admitted to himself that just _maybe_ he ought to have come in the front. He stopped in front of the elevator, zipping up his hoodie as he tried to decide how he was going to play it. He supposed he was going to be reduced to asking at the front desk like a pleb. Or maybe he could just start at the top floor, work his way down? There were bound to be bodyguards or _something_ that gave it away. He jammed the call button.

The elevator opened not long after, but as the doors opened, Proton realized he wasn't going to be alone. He stepped on, nodding politely to the rather attractive woman in the short black cocktail dress as he did so, trying very hard not to stare at her tits through that nice, low V-neckline of hers. Hot damn. She had a great figure.

"Which floor?" she asked him.

"Uh, top," he replied, and the woman nodded, pressing the button for the tenth floor. "Where you coming from, dressed up all nice? Big party in town, tonight?"

She eyed him warily as the elevator lurched into action. "There wasn't a party," she carefully replied, "I've been hired to _entertain_ a client here."

"Lucky guy," Proton snickered, "anyone famous?"

"Not anyone you'd know, I'd imagine," the woman sighed, "some big real-estate mogul. Apparently he signed some big deal recently and he's looking to celebrate."

"You don't mean Mr. Mouri?" Proton said. The woman looked round at him, eyes widening.

"You know him?" she pressed, "what kind of person is he?"

"Uh..." Proton glanced between the woman and the floor buttons. She was heading to floor 7. They were almost there. "Actually, I was on my way to see him, too, but I thought he was in the penthouse. He's..." An old family friend? His boss? Distant relative? Proton's mind raced through a hundred and one possible explanations. There had to be something convincing. Something that would get him in. "He's my sugar daddy." Fuck him and his stupid-ass mouth.

" _Oh_ ," the woman said, "so the hood, and..."

"Yeah," Proton quickly agreed, "he's, uh, still pretty far in the closet. Likes me to sneak in when no one can see. Sorry, did I scare you?"

"Oh, no. No, no," the woman answered, and she placed a hand gently on Proton's arm. "I get it. It's not right you have to hide. He's a pig."

"He is," Proton agreed, "but at least his wallet's fat." They shared a laugh. Well, this was happening. The elevator lurched to a halt and the door opened. Proton stood back to allow the woman out first. then followed closely behind her. "Honestly, though, he's not expecting me. He got into trouble a few days ago, so I thought I'd come surprise him."

"That's sweet of you," the woman said, "he better buy you something nice for the trouble."

"I figure I let him have his fun tonight and tomorrow I ask him for a new outfit I had my eyes on," Proton lied, "Make up for these atrocious rags he makes me come in."

"Honey, you should ask for more than that," the woman chastised, shaking her head, "this is my third night with him, and if you put up with that all the time, you deserve _more_." There were no bodyguards. They came to a stop outside one of the rooms, and the two turned to each other.

"Hey, listen," Proton said, "if you want, you can skip out. I'll make sure he wires you the money."

"Well... I really shouldn't..." She seemed to struggle with the idea for a minute, but Proton offered her the most charming smile he could and finally she just laughed. "Alright, alright. Tell him we'll reschedule. Stay safe in there." With a wink and pat on his shoulder, she turned on her heel and walked back to the elevator. Proton watched her go, giving one final wave as the doors closed behind her. What a nice girl. Too bad.

Sighing to himself, Proton stretched, working the kinks out of his back, then took quick stock of his things. One knife in his boot. One in his back pocket. One in the inside pocket of his jacket. Gun tucked into his belt. Alright. That was everything. Showtime.

He rapped loudly on the door, waiting patiently as he heard the scuffle of feet. The door opened, and one disgruntled-looking Mouri peered around it at him. He was just as gross in person as he'd looked on the TV, and Proton felt his nose start to wrinkle in disgust. Mouri was eying him with similar disdain.

"Who are you?" the fat bureaucrat demanded, "I don't have time for interviews or... _whatever_ you're selling. I'm expecting someone." Inwardly, Proton groaned. He was going to regret this.

"She wasn't able to make it," he said as smoothly as he could. Forcing a smile, he leaned into the doorframe and reached out to brush his fingers lightly against Mouri's. "She was feeling a little under the weather and thought maybe you'd like to spend some time with me."

He was certain everything was about to go to shit. Mouri would kick up a fuss, people would hear it. If Proton even got the job done, someone would see his face, the cops would be called, he'd end up running through town until someone tackled him, handcuffed him, dragged him in. But to his surprised, Mouri opened the door wider and grabbed Proton by the upper arm, pulling him sharply inside.

It really was a nice room. It was certainly bigger than even his new dorm, he realized with a pang of annoyance. He wasn't expecting a mansion, or anything, but would a little bit of extra space have been too much to ask? He decided he would do something about it when he got back. For now, he had a job to do. He reached for the knife in his back pocket, but before he could do anything, he felt Mouri's hand grab him by the ass, and he jumped. The other snaked around his middle, pulling him flush back against his mark.

"I'll take what I can get, even if it's a scrawny fag like you," Mouri groused, and Proton felt his gross, warm breath on his ear. It sent shivers of disgust and anger down his spine, but Mouri didn't seem to notice; or if he did, he didn't expressly care. The hand fondling his ass slid around to his front.

"You might be biting off more than you can chew," Proton replied, struggling to keep his tone in check. So maybe this situation was less than ideal. But maybe... if he was careful... He turned slowly on the spot as he felt the hand insistently sliding down his pants, resisted the urge to kick the old asshole in the nuts, and pressed closely up against him. They kissed; he tasted like alcohol. Proton didn't expressly mind that. Drunken games of spin-the-bottle broke out in the security office more than frequently, and both Carillo and Shufen were known to enjoy some of the harder drinks from time to time. But the rest of it -- the taste of Mouri -- it set Proton on edge. He didn't like it. He wanted to be done. He began to reach again for his knife.

It was almost as if Mouri knew something was amiss. Every move he made actively stopped Proton in his tracks, and as they kissed, as Mouri fondled him, somehow they were moving and Proton felt the bed hit the back of his legs. Mouri shoved, and down he went. His mark climbed atop him, pressing one knee between his legs and pinning his wrists. Proton allowed the next kiss to come, ignoring the growing warmth as Mouri rubbed against him like a fucking houndour in heat. Lips met his neck; an unsteady breath of air left him. _Fuck_ , he was warm. There were so many ways this could go wrong, but he couldn't wait any longer.

He leveraged himself on the matress, digging his fingers into the fluff as the muscles in his leg coiled and he _struck_ , ramming his knee into Mouri's crotch. The old dick doubled over, gasping for air through the pain, and Proton shoved him off, hearing the _THUD_ as he hit the floor. Proton rolled to his feet, stomping down hard on Mouri's chest as he growled, teeth bared in a sneer.

"Fuckin' homophobic shit," he spat, kicking him again for good measure, "glad I get to be the one who does ya in." He dropped to his knees, practically straddling Mouri as he finally slipped his hand into his back pocket, pulling his knife out and twirling it between his fingers. Mouri was pushing at him, shoving at his chest; he was bigger than Proton, just a bit. Enough to be a hassle. He almost shoved him off, but Proton held fast and punched him in the mouth, satisfied as he heard the _crunch_ of loosening teeth and his mark's groan of pain. The knife followed shortly behind. Proton grabbed Mouri by the hair, forcing his head down to lax the skin, and without ceremony stabbed his blade into the weak neck, drawing it lovingly, deeply across. Blood spurted from the wound, the metallic tang splattering against his face, and Proton felt the blade cleave straight through Mouri's throat.

He let put a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He wasn't done. Had to make it look like... well, like _not_ murder. He relaxed, himself, easing back as he whiped the knife on Mouri's shirt before stowing it again in his back pocket. Mouri was desperately trying to suck in a breath that would never come, odd gurgling sounds floating from him instead of desperate pleas for salvation. Proton quirked an eyebrow and wiped at his mouth, grimacing at the taste of the fresh blood that was now smearing his glove.

"Ya brought this on yaself, ya rich fuck," he said flatly, "that girl was right. Better buy me somethin' nice for all this bullshit." Gingerly, he pushed Mouri's coat open, ignoring the weak hands grasping to try and seal the bloody gash in his neck. There wasn't much. Nothing special, at least, no fancy car keys. But Proton _did_ find his wallet, smirking as he plucked it free of its confines and rifling through it. " _Ah-ha...!_ Look what we got here, eh? You cheap bastard, you. All this cash, and you're slummin' it in this basic bitch room?" Mouri didn't need it anymore, that was for sure; his movements were growing slower, weaker by the moment. Proton smiled as he stuffed the wallet into his ratted hoodie.

There was a knock on the door.

It was loud and persistent, and altogether unexpected; Proton jumped, eyes widening as he whipped around. _Shit_. It was time to go.

"Room service!" a voice on the other side of the door called. Proton's eyes darted towards the window. "Mr. Mouri? I have your dinner and wine."

Proton scrambled to get his shit in order, taking as much care as he could afford to make certain he left nothing overly incriminating -- his knife was back in his pocket, the wallet in his jacket, hat firmly on his head. The doorknob jiggled as the hotel worker's tone became frantic. Suddenly, they threw their body against the door. Proton was out. He shoved himself to his feet and raced to the window, popping it open and squeezing himself out onto the ledge. The employee threw themselves at the door again; he heard the wood of the frame _shatter_ , the cries of surprise. The fire escape wasn't too far, only a couple rooms over, but the way down was long. Proton swallowrd hard and began sidling along the ledge of the building. It was so cold, up here. The wind was brutal, a forceful bluster that threatened to be all he felt on his face before darkness, but still Proton pushed on. He tried to keep himself as small as possible, to lower his center of gravity as he painstakingly sidled further and further. He passed one room, theb with concentration, another; lights were on. People were coming to windows, but no one had the balls to meet him outside. Somewhere in the distance, he heard sirens, but it was too late. He was almost gone. The wind blew again, hard. His foot slipped.

It wasn't a pleasant experience, to nearly fall to your death. His foot slid off the ledge and into the open air, his balance thrown, and Proton windmilled in space while, for only a moment, the world stood still. Gravity quickly came calling. No intelligent thoughts crossed his mind as he felt himself teeter to his own demise, but his heart stopped and his stomach lurched into his throat as he realized his mistake and its impending consequence. Wildly, he threw out his arms. Something caught.

The next thing Proton knew, he was dangling from the side of the fire escape, feet over open air as he clung to the creaking metal. His eyes trained on the ground far below him -- _shit._ It was such a long way down. He imagined, briefly, what it woild have been like; the fall. The impact. The blood and broken bones, if he even had survived. The wail of sirens cried in the distance. He didn't have time for this. Proton struggled for a moment, feet scraping at nothing, and when he finally decided he wasn't pulling himself up any time soon, he instead looked to the next platform below him. Carefully, he seung himself towards it and dropped. For a second, he was sure he was going to miss, that this had just been a quaint little rest stop on his journey to death, but when he landed hard on the metal grating, his stomach settled and relief flooded through him. The rest of the way down was much easier, though a few times Proton would miss a step and trip a few stairs, until finally he met the ladder and he climbed the rest of the way down, hopping off about half way. The sirens rang louder. They were almost here, and Proton wasn't about to stick around to see what happened. He turned around and was off, sprinting through back alleys once more as he headed out of town.

Memories of his childhood cropped up with every turn he took, every shop or diner he spotted on the street, but he didn't stop to reminisce. The cops were quick to pass him by. Lights flashed and sirens deafened him, staining the alleyways hot reds and electric blues as the zipped by, but Proton was always tucked away, out of sight. Nothing could stop him, now. Absolutely nothing. That thought empowered him, and even when he felt fire in his legs, he pushed himself harder. Soon the alleys began to thin out, and he was forced onto the sidewalk. He slowed to a hurried walk then, unwilling to attract more attention. Was it judt him, or were there even more squsd cars out, tonight? Another went flying by, the sirens ringing in his ears well after the car disappeared. All he needed was one fucking car to stop, one cop to ask what the hell was with all that blood on his jacket. Proton scowled down at the stains. This was his _favorite_ jacket. The blood was never going to wash out.

Soon, even the buildings began to thin out. Proton spotted the pokemart he had frequented as a kid. The lights were still on. He wondered how Mr. Yamaguchi was doing. He must have been old, now. Proton kept walking. In the distance, another siren. This one was starting to sound like it was getting closer. He paused. Was it worth it, to just keep going and _hope_ they weren't looking for him? There was no guarantee that he wasn't seen, after all, who knew who might have been looking out their windows, or who had been walking the other way unnoticed in Proton's haste? But HQ was so far away. If he wanted to get back in any good time, he'd need to take the train from Goldenrod back to Blackthorne, then maybe a bus a bit of the ways up the mountain. There was no way that would happen with his hoodie blood-soaked the way it was. He needed to bunker down.

Pace slowing, Proton made up his mind. He turned at the corner of the street and kept going a little further until he came to a little parking lot nestled in between a couple apartment complexes. There were a few cars, but he bypassed them entirely. In the far back, the corner of the lot, sat an old camper van. Proton stopped outside of it, fishing briefly in his pocket. He weighed the keys in his palm. It was better than nothing. He unlocked the door and pulled himself in, taking care to quietly shut it behind him.

It was just as he remembered. Small. Cramped. Futons stuffed under a tiny table, a couple chairs, and a stovetop that might as well have been in a doll's house. There were a few old food wrappers on the floor, and a half-empty bottle of barley tea from who knew how long ago. He wasn't how often she came back here. Did she even get much time outside? He went searching for anything left he could feasibly eat. There was no food, unfortunately, but he found their stash of water bottles in the cooler, right where they were supposed to be. Alongside it, he found a plastic baggy of a familiar white powder, and he frowned. No. No jumping to conclusions. It could have been from before the rehab clinic. Just to be safe, he gingerly took the baggy between his fingers and stuffed it into his pocket. He'd dispose of it properly back at HQ.

Ignoring the chairs, Proton pulled out one of the futons and spread it hastily on the floor before flopping down onto it ungracefully, water bottle in hand. He popped the cap off and took a long swig, digging into his other pocket for his pokegear and scrolling through the numbers. He dialed. The line rang. He allowed himself to slump backwards, leaning against the cold van wall, and drew his knees close to his chest. It was so cold in here. The line picked up.

" _Hello?_ " A breath left him. He'd picked up. Petrel had _actually_ picked up. He couldn't imagine a situation where he'd have been happy to hear Petrel's stupid fucking baritone before now, but here he was.

"Hey," Proton greeted quickly, "hey, it's me. Listen, I'm in a little bit of shit. Where are you right now?"

" _Where the fuck do you think?_ " Petrel replied evenly, " _not like I can get very fucking far. Bernard!"_

"Can you come pick me up?" Proton asked.

" _What? **Ugh** , Proton, I'm a little busy right now. BERNARD. Get your ass over here! You're only in Goldenrod, Proton, right? Just take the train."_

"I can't," Proton tried to explain, "it got messy, I got blood all over me and I ain't got other clothes."

" _So hike through the woods._ "

"That'd take _days_. Archer wanted me back by tomorrow. Meanwhile the cops are crawlin' all over the damn city." Proton curled in tighter on himself. "Petrel. _Please_. I... I don't want anyone else to find me. They'd fuck everythin' up."

Silence. Proton waited anxiously, hoping his play had been correct, that Petrel would blindly fold to his poor attempt at flattery. Petrel's heavy sigh came across the line.

" _You called for me, sir?_ " Bernard's voice chimed in from the background.

" _Yeah,_ " he heard Petrel reply, " _I have to head out for a while. Cancel my appointments. You're in charge._ "

" _Shit_ , thank you," Proton said, "thank you, Petrel." Petrel grunted in reply, and demanded his address. Proton described in detail his hiding place, the run down, old camper in the nearly abandoned parking lot, and when Petrel hung up the phone, Proton yanked Twitch's pokeball off his belt and crouched to open the door.

"Alright, buddy," he said as he let his little zubat out, "I want you on look-out. Petrel's comin' in his car, so if you find him, lead him here, okay?" Twitch snuffled and beat his wings, taking to the skies. Proton pulled the door shut once more and settled back to wait.

He must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing he knew, there was a knock on the side of the van, and startled awake, Proton jumped. A forceful order of "GCPD! Open up!" had him wide-eyed in seconds, slapping one hand over his mouth and holding his breath. The knock came again. Proton squeezed his eyes shut. Then came the laughter, the deep, rumbling chuckles, of Petrel's familiar voice, and cracking one eye open, Proton slowly came to the realization of what was going on. Growling, Proton got up on his knees and opened the door. Petrel was smirking down at him, still dressed in his scrubs and clearly aware of the panic he'd just caused. Twitch was resting on his shoulder.

"You fuckin' _dick_ ," Proton growled, "that wasn't funny!"

"It was _hilarious_ ," Petrel disagreed. He leaned forward to briefly poke his head into the van. "Where'd you find this dump? Whose is it?" Proton grabbed him by the face and pushed him back out. Petrel retaliated by licking his hand.

"What the fuck!" Proton cried, racing to wipe it off on his already ruined jacket.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," Petrel said, "so? Who'd you kill to steal this dumb ride?"

"Move," Proton snapped. Petrel stepped out of the way, and Proton climbed out of the van. He pulled his keys out, shuffling the ring around until he found the key to the van and locked it.

"...It's yours?" Petrel pressed.

"Where's your car?" Proton asked. Petrel eyed him strangely for a second, then beckoned him on. They began to walk. Twitch took to the skies overhead to continue his lookout duties.

"You really are fucked up," Petrel mused, "what'd you do to get all that on you?"

"Slit the pig's throat," Proton replied, "was right up on him. Wanted him to suffer a bit before he went." Petrel chuckled again.

"Man, that's grand," he laughed, "he really had it coming, didn't he? Over there, by the mart." He pointed to the car. It was parked right in front of Mr. Yamaguchi's PokeMart, bathed in the warm light from inside. Petrel went to unlock it, then ushered Proton into the passenger's seat. "Wait here. I won't be long."

He settled in, folding his arms across his chest to hide the stains as best he could, and watched as Petrel entered the autimatic doors. True to his word, he was only in there for maybe ten, fifteen minutes, and when he came out, it was with a large bag in his hands. He slid into the driver's seat and rummaged in the bag for a minute before pulling out a package and throwing it at Proton.

"Cover up," he said, "sun's up in an hour and it'll be at least three more before we get back."

"Thanks," Proton replied. He opened the packaging to pull out a thin blanket, and obediently, he spread it out over himself, drawing it tightly up under his chin. Petrel, meanwhile, dug further into his bag to pull out a can of milk coffee, and tossed the rest of the bag at Proton as he popped the tab. The bag landed with a painful, heavy _thump_ on Proton's lap, and he briefly grimaced before peering inside. There were three or four more cans of the same brand of coffee, and a small assortment of packaged snacks. He caught sight of a cream bread, and eyes lighting, he snaked one hand into the bad to dig for it.

"Yeah, help yourself," Petrel conceded, "you hungry? Need more of a meal?"

"Mmph," Proton replied, as he had already ripped the packaging open and stuffed the roll half-in his mouth. Petrel seemed to understand.

"Alright. Just let me know if you need me to stop and get you anything. Go ahead and sleep if you want. It's going to be a while."

He flipped on the headlights and pulled out onto the street, then shifted to a higher gear, and off they went. Proton didn't sleep -- or maybe couldn't. His mind kept drifting to the baggy in his pocket, to the untouched camper van, to the events at the hotel. Soon his thoughts turned to HQ, to what Archer might have to say about it all. What the news might say. He didn't think anyone got a good look at him, especially not his face. Even if there was a warrant out, it might not have been for himself, specifically, and as long as it meant he could still go out for drinks that weekend, he wasn't particularly bothered.

But he still wasn't looking forward to the feeling of his new dorm crushing him alive like a fucking trash compactor. They were out of Goldenrod, somewhere along the highway, when Proton felt the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"It's my mom's van," he said, not necessarily to Petrel, but having a captive audience was, in a way, freeing. "We lived in Saffron when I was real small, and when my parents split, she took me an' the van and we came to Goldenrod. It was s'pposed to be temporary until she could get stable work, but here we are, almost fifteen fuckin' years later, and all we got is that shitty camper."

Petrel shot him a sidelong glance. "That's where you lived?" he prompted, "what was the problem, why couldn't she get work?"

"I dunno," Proton sighed, leaning his cheek against the window, "just... no one would give her any. Then somewhere along the line, she got hooked on coke, and that was that. No more cash."

"Ahh, so you came to Rocket, then," Petrel mused, "I see. It's not a half-bad way to make some cash."

"Yeah, pretty much," Proton chuckled, "when I lost my part-time job at the Mart over school, I started hustlin' over at the Game Corner to try and scrape up cash for rehab or somethin'. Ma overdosed and I got desperate, ended up rippin' off the wrong guy." He looked back at Petrel, a wry grin overtaking his face. "Got my ass kicked behind the dumpster and they thought it would be funny to drag me back with em."

"And now you're here," Petrel concluded, "so, how's the money, then?"

"Not enough," Proton admitted, "rehab's fuckin' expensive and she ain't got no income. All my money goes to her."

"You should talk with Master Giovanni when he gets back. Maybe he can work something out with you."

It was a good idea. Proton still wasn't sure how much he was supposed to be making, now -- it had been weeks. Had he gotten paid, yet? He struggled to try and remember. They were quiet again for a while. The sky was beginning to lighten; the sun would be up, soon. Petrel shifted gears as they approached their first exit onto another highway and cracked open his second coffee.

"Your little friends from security aren't supposed to know about all this, I'd imagine?" Petrel eventually asked. "I'm assuming that's why you decided to bother me."

"I'm not interested in their pity," Proton agreed, "I just want to do my damn work. I don't think you really care about this kinda shit. It's a nice change."

"Yeah, I really don't fucking care." Petrel nodded sagely. "If I wasn't worried about falling asleep I'd have tuned you out by now, but you're interesting enough."

"Gee, thanks." Proton snorted and rolled his eyes. "Eh, I shouldn't complain. Thanks for comin' to get me. They'd never have let me live it down. Already think I'm fuckin' claustrophobic. Though, with how small my new dorm is, I just might be." A shiver involuntarily ran up his spine at the thought. He'd talk to Archer when he got back, too. Move somewhere a little bigger, or somethimg. If nothing else, he could start sleeping in the break room. The couch was nice enough.

"Do you want to move back in with me?" The question came completely out of the blue, and for a second, Proton thought he'd been imagining it. But no, when he looked at Petrel again he only repeated himself. "Seriously. Do you want to? I have space to spare."

"I... Yeah. If it's okay. I don't want to bother you."

Petrel nodded again. "Alright. It's settled. You'll be back in the guest room tonight, and I'll hhelp you move your things. I got used to your noise. It helped me focus."

"What noise?"

The rest of the car ride was peaceful, filled with banter and cheap shots taken at each other's manhood. It was relaxing. Proton found himself eager to return, now, eager to get his shit from that small, stupid dorm and move back into Petrel's. He imagined sprawling out in ghe guest room, window open, listening to the sound of the news from the den. _Shit_ , he couldn't wait.

Maybe Petrel wasn't so much of a dick, after all.

 **A/N: Call me out if you see a typo I missed :U I usually don't manage to find them all for like a month.**


	12. Getting the Hang Of It?

**Disclaimer: don't do bibble. Not even once.**

 _Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep._ Proton groaned. Barely awake, he shifted in the bed, pulling his pillow firmly over his face and pressing it down around his ears, as if that would somehow make the shrill cry of his alarm stop its relentless assault on his senses. This was dumb. Whose idea was this? He made stupid, stupid decisions in his life. Maybe if he had taken the straight path, gone to uni, he wouldn't have to wake up so damnably early. In the meantime, he settled for trying to go back to sleep. His alarm was not pleased with this decision. Only a few minutes later, it grew louder. More shrill. It felt like he was at the dentist, except instead of having his teeth scraped, his skull was being drilled into. Now that was an idea. He wondered, briefly, if that ought to be something he tried downstairs.

 _BEEP-BEEP. BEEP-BEEP. BEEP-BEE-!_ Blindly, Proton groped around until his hand hit something, and he grabbed it tightly and threw it in the direction of the beeping. There was a noise, a crash - and the beeping ceased. Blissful silence descended in the room once more. Finally, he could go back to snoozing. Satisfied, Proton put the pillow back and pulled his sheets up tightly around himself, snuggling down onto his side as he stilled.

That peacefulness lasted roughly about five seconds, when the door to his room burst open and Petrel let himself in, neat and dressed in his uniform. He looked between Proton and the fallen alarm clock before he tutted quietly to himself. Proton heard his heavy footsteps plod along the carpet until he came to a stop on the other side of the bed. He groaned and pulled his sheets completely over himself as Petrel picked up the mess, setting the alarm back down on the bedside table.

"Whose is this?" Petrel asked him, "is it yours?" When Proton didn't answer, he felt Petrel reach out and drop it on his head. It was soft, not too heavy, and Proton heard the settling of the beads before he felt them. Suddenly he jolted upright, throwing the covers off just enough to grab the old, tattered slowpoke beanie before Petrel could take it again.

"Shut up," he huffed, "ain't none of your business. "

" _Aww_ , you sleep with it?" Petrel snickered, "how _cute_."

"Shut up!" Proton growled again. Petrel only laughed.

"Okay kiddo," he placated, "you tuck your little buddy in and get dressed like a big boy. Staff meeting in thirty." He ruffled Proton's hair with a shit-eating grin, and recoiled just out of his reach as Proton tried to smack him.

"If you don't get out in the next three seconds, you're gonna be crying on the damn floor," Proton hissed.

"Promise?" Petrel wiggled his eyebrows and Proton growled.

"Get _out!_ " he snapped, Petrel's mechanical laughter ringing in his ears as he shut the door behind him. Proton stewed in his ire, absent-mindedly clutching his slowpoke to his chest. He squeezed it tightly, feeling the familiar movement of the beads under the plush cloth, his knuckles turning white from the tension. Suddenly he came to the realization that he was crushing his poor, abused poke-plush, and with a hitch of breath he dropped it into his lap, gently petting its head. "Sorry," he told the slowpoke, "I didn't mean it." Returning the slowpoke plush to its position of glory next to his pillow, Proton rolled out of bed.

By the time they had gotten back to HQ a few days prior, it had been early morning, and virtually no one had been up. Proton had eaten most of the snacks Petrel had bought at the PokeMart, and Petrel likewise had drank all the milk coffee. Suffice to say between the two of them, they had enough sugar and caffeine to power a roller coaster, and giddy from their respective highs had run giggling back to Petrel's dorm to watch the news and, as Petrel called it, "keep score." Mostly Proton remembered leaning back into the armchair until he was comfy, and that was where he found himself the following morning. It had been nice to wake up to the news still on, to be greeted by Petrel with a simple "morning" and a few pancakes. He really was a good cook. That had solidified his decision; he took Petrel with him later that day to Archer's office, where, after much pestering, he agreed to reassign Proton to Petrel's dorm. They went back to gather Proton's things one final time, and Proton had spent the rest of the day unpacking and settling himself back into the guest room.

"Your room," Petrel said as Proton expressed his gratefulness upon their return, "until you ever decide to move out again, it's your room. I'll clear out some shelves later so you can use them."

"Thanks," Proton had said, "really. I mean it." Petrel didn't really seem to care either way.

Fast forward to today, where Proton was groggily pulling on his uniform, doing his best to flatten the wrinkles and straighten his collar. Boss was finally on his way back from fuck knew where, and there was no doubt he wouldn't be getting off as easy as he had, last time. Petrel had actually spent a little while helping him put together his reports. At the very least, their quality would be up to standard with the others'. He only hoped it was enough to maintain Giovanni's approval. Maybe, if he did well, he could stay and afterwards ask the Boss about where his paycheck had ended up. He barely had any savings as it was, and even what he did have he was beginning to burn through just sending what he could home. Twitch arrived at the window just as Proton was finishing pulling on his gloves, and he opened it to let his little zubat in, watching as he flew to the closet and hung upside-down from the clothes rod to sleep.

"G'night, Twitch," he said to his pokemon as he headed towards the door, "I'll see you tonight. Be good." The sleepy trills of his zubat followed out of the room after him.

Petrel's dorm was unique in that it had two bathrooms. He was sure the bigger, nicer one was hidden away through Petrel's room, but there was a small one across from his own room that included a sink, a mirror, a toilet, and a shower head all crammed into just enough space to stand. He looked like shit. There were dark rings under his eyes, and he quickly shaved the stubble from his chin. He was able to brush his teeth, but he didn't have time to piss, because Petrel came back only minutes later to pressure him towards the front door. He kept going on and on about how they were going to be late, how upset Giovanni was going to be. Their reports in hand, the two slipped on their boots and walked together to the conference room.

Archer was already there when they arrived. The lights were on, this time, and in front of Archer sat a large, steaming mug of tea proudly proclaiming him to be the "World's #1 P.A." Proton wondered whether Archer had gotten it for himself or if Giovanni had given it to him as some sort of gag gift. He couldn't imagine either of them having such a sense of humor. He and Petrel dropped their things at their chairs and took the usual ritual of lining up to use the coffee machine. This time, Proton selected a coffee that came with its own fancy little packet of powdered creamer. Supposedly it would taste like a vanilla latte. As the coffee poured into his paper cup and the aroma of the mingling of the brew and the creamer hit him, he was not disappointed.

"You two seem in good spirits," Archer commented as Proton took his seat, "everything is going well?"

"Yeah," Proton replied, "it's been fine. How about you?"

"Busy as always," his senior sighed, "the paperwork never ends. I can only hope Master Giovanni will be pleased by the new bid situation."

"I mean, yeah, he's gotta be, right? Mouri's dead, I kind of fixed that." Archer's face fell further into exasperation.

"You have no idea how anything works, do you?" he deadpanned. Proton scowled.

He was about to make a witty reply when the door at the other end of the room opened, and in stepped none other than Giovanni and Ariana. They were chatting quietly to each other, and occasionally laughing. Some little red-haired brat was hanging around Giovanni's ankles.

"He _didn't_ ," Ariana was laughing.

"He did, I swear," Giovanni replied, mouth twisted into a wry smirk, "you know me, I love Grant, but the length to which he just _talks_... Sometimes the things he says hits too close to home."

"And _no one_ else thought it was weird?" she prompted, and Giovanni shrugged.

"I laughed it off," he said, "they did, too. Americans have a weird sense of humor, you know that. You've met the man."

"He has no idea how right he is," she added, shaking her head. Maybe Proton was imagining it, but there was something between the two of them. It was the swagger in Giovanni's step, the nonchalant front with the pompous undertones; it was the sly smirk played across Ariana' lips, the casual way she regarded him. Were they...?

"Dad," the munchkin suddenly piped up, pulling at Giovanni's trousers, "who's that?"

Giovanni glanced down to the child and followed the point of his finger to Proton. For a second it seemed as though he were about to brush the child off, but instead he crouched low next to him, placing a hand comfortingly on the boy's shoulder.

"This is Executive Proton," he patiently explained, "he's new. Don't worry. He's supposed to be here."

Was he supposed to say something? Proton awkwardly sought the others' eyes, trying to find any hint of what he was supposed to do, but none of them seemed willing to bestow that information upon him, if they even knew themselves. He supposed he might as well. How did you even talk to kids? Like they were a pokemon? Because some pokemon were pretty dumb. So were some humans, come to think of it. Maybe that was the key. Maybe he just had to talk to the kid like he was a really small and stupid adult.

Before he could make a complete and total ass of himself, Giovanni redirected the child as best he could. "Never mind that now," he said, "Silver, do you want to play with Persian while Dad works?"

"Yeah!" Silver exclaimed, and Giovanni smiled as he took a pokeball off of his belt and handed it to him. The boy went to the corner and engaged the release mechanism. The persian shook itself once its matter had finished materializing. It was larger than the boy by maybe an inch; frankly, Silver could probably have ridden it like a ponyta. Almost immediately upon seeing the child, Persian flopped over onto his side, folding his front paws neatly before him. Silver, likewise, flopped down, snuggling up close in Persian's fur. When Proton glanced around at the others again, it was to find each of them with a spark of affection in their eyes -- even Petrel.

Proton paused. This was the first time he could remember seeing such a relaxed look on Petrel's face. Such a _genuine_ look. Usually his smiles were forced, a mask that never quite reached his eyes. It was strange to see the natural curl of Petrel's lips, to see softness instead of rotting indifference. What brought this on, Proton thought, the _kid?_ The cat? Was this one of Petrel's secret weaknesses?

Giovanni clapped his hands together jovially, quickly recapturing the attention of his executives. "Ah, before I forget! souvenirs!"

He motioned to Ariana, who held out a large paper bag to him. Giovanni took it and set it on the conference table to dig through. Souvenirs? _Really?_ Proton watched as he dug for a minute and then went to hand something to Archer. Apparently it was okay to open it right away, as Archer did so to find a new mug emblazoned with an Indigo League logo.

"Ah, charming," Archer said, "this is the new line?"

"Launching next month," Giovanni replied, "can't have you with an incomplete collection, can we? Petrel." He tossed something across the table, and with oddly quick reflexes, Petrel caught it.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," he drawled with faux affection, waving the cigarette pack in a lazy salute, "I didn't know they sold Sobranie up the hill."

"Well, if I'm not murdering my best physician slowly with expensive lung cancer, what's the point?" Giovanni replied. Petrel snickered and pocketed the box.

"You're a _saint_."

Proton was expecting Giovanni to turn to Ariana next, but was surprised when the boss reached into the bag and slid another, smaller bag across the table and into Proton's report. Proton's eyes widened and he looked from the package to Giovanni.

"For me?" he asked.

"I wasn't sure what you liked," Giovanni answered. He was folding his bag up now, stashing it under the table as he took his regular seat. "There was a nice pastry shop in town. Feel free to enjoy. Now! Since we have _that_ out of the way..."

He was expecting Ariana to get something, but instead Giovanni got straight to business. It was only when she moved to take her own seat that Proton saw the glittering of the large, beautiful new diamond earrings she was wearing. Those must have been a little bit more than a mug, some cigarettes, and some... Proton became excited as he peeked into the pastry bag. The bread looked soft, and he could smell the distinct aroma of red bean paste. Oh, _hell_ yes. These weren't going to survive the meeting, let alone the day.

Before he could eat a single one, the meeting began. Just as last time, Archer took the lead. Proton did his best to pay rapt attention to his presentation. It began with a run-down on the new bidding situation in Goldenrod, and Giovanni already looked incredibly pleased with the situation as Archer began to speak. Due to Mouri's untimely demise and the theft of the building deed only days beforehand, all the interested parties were scrambling to try and win ownership yet again.

"Good," Giovanni eventually said, "add an extra five million to the bid."

"Sir, we're already offering far more than what the building is worth," Archer told him, "I'm not expecting any trouble from the other buyers."

"I want that building, Archer!" Giovanni snapped in reply, leaning over the table to stare his executive down. "I am _not_ losing it again. If you don't win me this bid, we'll be having a chat about your status around here. Do you understand?"

"Forgive me, Sir," Archer answered without missing a beat, "then in that case, why stop at five? I'll add ten to the bid. Perhaps I can invite our competition for drinks."

Giovanni seemed pleased enough with that answer and nodded his approval. "I'll be expecting good news from you the next meeting. Now, about the budget for the genetics division..." There was a lot of talk about numbers, a lot of Giovanni making demands and Archer subtly reminding him there was not enough funding to go around. Similarly, Giovanni would subtly remind of his threat, and Archer would bend without hesitation, promising to make it work. It was astounding the amount of bullshit he was willing to put up with. If they couldn't afford it, they couldn't afford it -- but Proton wasn't about to say that to Giovanni's face.

Ariana's report went much the same, though in reverse; she spoke at length about a new brothel they had opened in Saffron City, and asked for the resources she would need to bring it to functionality. Giovanni would either refuse outright or allow her far less than she would request. Unlike Archer, she grew to be visibly agitated, her calm demeanor from earlier unraveling into a positively menacing presence and poisonous gaze. Eventually after enough bickering between the two, Giovanni gave in, but the new amount he promised was barely an appeasement at all. Ariana bedrudgingly accepted it anyways, though Proton was starting to expect anything between the two was far from over in private. What was that even _like?_ He supposed that Ariana's general dislike of him would keep that knowledge just out of his reach.

Apparently, Team Rocket owned a metric shitton of bath houses and massage parlors, because the rest of Ariana's reports had mostly to do with discussing the general earnings and recent happenings of their day to day business. Especially with the recent cold fronts, business was booming. Petrel piped up to ask when they would finally get a hot spring installed in the base, at which the other three instantly berated him and claimed a lack of funding. Then in an almost seamless transition, it was Petrel's turn.

Unlike the last staff meeting, his report had nothing to do with the infirm; he spoke at length about black market deals and all sorts of seedy, underworld connections. There were names Proton had never heard before who they apparently either supplied or were customers of. It sounded like a big deal. Proton gathered from the way they spoke that there were certain people they didn't necessarily want to be pissing off -- and others who they weren't so worried about, including some drug dealer who had recently stolen from them. Petrel gleefully recounted the news that, apparently, the guy had been dragged into HQ to learn the error of his ways.

That was where Proton came in.

"Well, we'll have to deal with that, won't we? Proton!" He snapped to attention in his seat as Giovanni called on him. "I want your best man on it right away."

"Yes, sir," he quickly agreed, "is he downstairs, or do I need to go looking for him?"

"Downstairs," Giovanni answered, "find out what happened to the money, then dispose of him. I want enough of him left to make an example of."

"As long as it doesn't matter what part, you got it. My 'best man' can get a little overzealous, sometimes." There was a round of chuckles from everyone, and Proton felt himself relaxing.

He was confident when Giovanni finally asked him for his report, and with what grace and style Petrel had taught him, he stood to speak. Most of his coaching had concerned the recap of his adventure in Goldenrod, followed by only the juciest bits of what had been going on lately in his divisions. Engineering was in the process of updating the generators, and Security was still knee-deep in their hunt for Cipher plants. Everything seemed to go well enough; Giovanni didn't bully him like he did the others, at least. Proton wondered if it was due to his relative freshness or if it really was that he was performing up to par. That question was quickly answered at the end of his report, after he sat. Giovanni thanked them all for their work as he shuffled and organized the papers he'd given them, then turned an expectant eye back onto Proton.

"Alright," he said, "I'm looking forward to this part. First meeting of the month. We'll begin in the opposite order -- Proton, let's hear your project proposals. Go on. _Impress me_."

"Er..." Dammit. Dammit, dammit, _dammit._ He should have known everything was going too smoothly. What did Giovanni mean, "proproject proposal?" Why the hell didn't these people communicate? A memo, a letter slipped under his door in the middle of the night, a carrier pidgey with a note tied to its leg, _anything._ How was he supposed to know what to do or say when no one seemed to think he ought to be in on how the job actually _worked_ _?_

"Petrel," Giovanni said sharply as Proton sweated, and Petrel grimaced, drawing himself up a little more straight.

"I swear to god, it just slipped my mind," he replied. "I got busy with the--"

"I don't want to hear it," Giovanni snapped, "I made it clear, Proton is your responsibility for now. Leave your report. Both of you, out. I want a project proposal from him by the end of the day."

"Yes, Sir." Petrel pushed himself to his feet and jerked his head towards the door. Proton hesitated.

"Sorry," he said, "sorry, there was just one thing I needed to ask you about, Boss--"

Giovanni's eyes met his own. The threat was silent, but clear; if he didn't do as he was told, there would be hell to pay. Shutting his mouth, he turned on his heel and followed Petrel out the door, clutching his pastries with stark-white knuckles.

Petrel walked as slow as usual. It wasn't just laziness; he was limping, Proton realized. The measured steps were equally uneven as they were deliberate, and he seemed to be favoring one side, taking care not to move any one limb outside a very rigid, very controlled range of motion. Proton wondered briefly what Petrel was recovering from -- and if Giovanni had caused it.

Their trip wound through the base, and Petrel lead him along the more quiet, less-used hallways. They eventually took the elevator to one of the middle floors and down one long hallway, stopping at one particular door on the inner wall. Spray painted across the front of the door in glittering pink unown stencils was "Petrel's Office." Underneath that was a small cork board, with all manner of notes pinned onto it. Some were official looking documents, and some were memos Petrel's admins had left for him. Some were just dumb doodles and stupid jokes. Petrel took a moment to look the board over. He smirked at a few of the doodles and pulled down a few of the memos and documents. Then, he fished his ID out of his pocket and swiped it through the card reader next to the door. There was an audible "click," and Petrel pushed his way inside. Proton followed closely behind him.

"We're not going to be here long," Petrel said as he flicked on the lights, "let me organize these real quick and I'll take you down the hall."

"No problem," Proton replied. Petrel's office was a pretty good size, and it smelled just as sterile as the infirm. In fact, with its large lab tables crammed along the sides a d the white board on the far wall, it looked an awful lot like the chemistry lab at his old school. Petrel's desk was large and L-shaped, the same frosted glass as his smaller one in the dorm. His computer was on the bit butted up perpendicular to the right wall to face the door, and the bit parallel to the left wall was covered in stacks of papers and files. Petrel was busy sorting his memos with the rest of it.

Proton decided to get a better look at the white board while he was busy. He wasn't much into chemistry, himself, but he recognized the long strings of letters and numbers scribbled in Petrel's torchic scratch as chemical formulas and equations. All around them were Greek letters, which must have been more formulas, and some incredibly nonsensical symbols that he assumed were alien glyphs.

"What's all this?" he asked over his shoulder.

"It's one of my projects," Petrel answered. "Actually, it's from the one I'm taking you to see. Here. You're gonna need this." Proton turned just in time to catch the gas mask Petrel tossed at him from across the room.

"So what's it about?" He followed Petrel back out of the lab and down the hall.

"Well, you know, a lot of our grunts use poison-types," Petrel explained, "I like koffing, myself. I extract the toxins from their smoke for lab use. One day, I borrowed a koffing from our bank, and I noticed its toxins were less potent than mine's was."

"So you're trying to figure out why?"

"Oh, I already know why. That koffing was eating the pre-packaged shit they feed everything. Mine was on a specialized diet. But it got me thinking!"

They stopped outside another door not much farther from Petrel's office. Petrel slid his card through the reader and ushered Proton inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. Immediately in front of them was a thick glass wall, door sealed tight. Thick, dark smoke swirled on the other side like a shadowy molasses.

"How many are _in_ there?" Proton pressed his nose to the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes as he tried to see inside. Occasionally he could have sworn he spied the dark, round shape of a koffing, but just as quick he would lose it.

"About twenty-five," Petrel answered, "I'm trying to design a diet to optimize their toxin output. We're going to collect a few samples from the stills." He nodded to Proton's gas mask. "Better put that on, or you'll choke out before we make it inside."

He did as he was told. The mask smelled like weeks-old sweat that probably would have made just about anyone else gag, but was a cakewalk compared to some of the things Proton had caught a whiff of downstairs. When he had tightened the straps back around his head, Petrel beckoned him on and opened the final door.

Smoke immediately flooded the safe area, pooling up and around them so thoroughly that Proton couldn't see his hand in front of his face, much less Petrel ahead of him. The smell of rotten eggs sweating in a decaying swamp made his nose wrinkle in a disgusted sneer. He reached one hand steadily out into the air -- nothing. Moved it left, then right, and still nothing. No walls. No Petrel. Carefully, he stepped forward. His hand brushed the glass, and blindly, he felt along it to the open door and walked through. There was a shape in the fog; he could start to make it out as he moved. A koffing? A machine? Hesitantly, he drew nearer, waiting to see if his fingers would brush along that abstract shape.

Suddenly it was upon him. In that second as he approached, the shape burst through the smoke and Proton yelped, falling back hard on his ass as he threw his hands up in front of him. There was a low, labored groan and a sudden rush of the air around him. The smell of rotting eggs strengthened. Somewhere near him, Petrel burst into laughter, his deep voice penetrating the dampening fumes.

"Jesus-- god _damn_ , that was good!" he crowed, muffled behind the gas mask, "you're gonna make me burst something, jesus christ. C'mon, get your ass up."

The low groan came again, and as Proton slowly lowered his hands, he realized the smoke had finally started to clear out. Petrel stood not far from him, rubbing his hands along the craggy surface of a weezing, its massive body suspended in the air before him. Weezing, Proton thought, looked like lab rejects. Minor inconveniences in a kaiju movie. They were altogether something unimpressive and abominable at the same time. Petrel, however, cooed and crooned at the thing like it was his only child. A gaggle of koffing were floating their way over, and Petrel greeted them one at a time and all by name. Proton felt a scowl coming on as he pushed himself back to hist feet.

"These are my babies," Petrel announced, "my oldest is Monoxide, this big boy, here." He pat the weezing on one of its heads. Of course Petrel would like such a strange abomination. "Come on. Much as I love them, we have work to do." He pushed through the minefield of poison-types, leading Proton to one of a series of moderately sized machines lined up along the walls. There was a small spigot on the front, connected to a tank with an odd-looking yellow liquid, a little pan on top and...

" _Piss?_ " Proton realized, "we're collecting _koffing piss?_ "

"Look at you, all smart," Petrel quipped, " _yes_ , we're collecting koffing piss. Here." He pulled a small bottle off the side of the machine and attached it to the spigot. Proton watched, disgusted, as Petrel twisted the handle, and the bottle quickly filled.

"Just like that," Petrel continued once he'd closed the spigot and bottle up, "take this side of the room, and be careful. This stuff will eat right through your gloves."

"If I lose my arm to koffing piss, I'm sueing," Proton replied. He set quickly to work at the next machine, taking the bottles off the sides and filling them one by one. The bottles were labeled with what he assumed were the koffings' names -- Chlorine, Iodine, Sulfur, and on and on it went. Each sample was a little different color, a little different opacity. Once, he accidentally dripped a bit of Fentanyl's sample on the floor, just droplets. It began to chew a gash into the linoleum, and Proton swore as he did his best to avoid touching it.

The work didn't last long. When they'd collected all twenty-five samples, they loaded the bottles securely into a couple crates. Petrel gave his murder balloons their good-bye nuzzles, and finally, they returned to the safe room, sealing the glass door behind them. They had to wait for the fans to kick in snd defumigate the room, and when it finally did, they stepped out into the slightly more fresh air of the hall. Proton raced to yank the gask mask off his head, inhaling the smell of the base deeply. The dead, necrotic smell of the koffing still leaked out into the hall just enough to be a bitter reminder in his nostrils.

"Not that it wasn't fun," he huffed, "but what did that have to do with anything? How am I supposed to make a project out of that, you inviting me to work with you, or something?"

"Oh, sweetheart, _no_ ," Petrel answered as he pulled off his own gas mask, " _hell_ no. Maybe when you're older. Come on."

When they returned to Petrel's office, Proton helped him to store all of the samples in a heated container, as Petrel was adamant they needed to remain warm until he could examine them fully. Then, he returned to his desk, pulling out a sheet of paper from one of its drawers. It was a form -- a project proposal form, and Petrel pushed it across to him along with a pen.

"My project deals with koffing, but its aim is to eventually extrapolate its data to other poison-types," Petrel said, "its use is to give our shock troops a little power-up, even when they're using some basic bitch pokemon."

"Do whatever I propose to Giovanni needs to be practical," Proton mused, "useful, not just theory."

"Exactly. And something you've got a head for. You know if there's anything you're interested in that could be out to work?"

Proton frowned as he thought, studying the form carefully. Interests? _Useful_ interests? He mostly spent his days working downstairs, and it was hard to think of anything he could co sider a hobby besides _maybe_ drinking. Maybe something with the computers? What were the _other_ executives working on? Archer seemed like he was always nose-deep in paperwork, and Ariana... Well, Proton didn't know much about Ariana, only that she didn't like him. He was in no way keen to visit her and ask what sort of weird sciencey shit she got up to, not after last time.

Wait.

"Pokeballs," Proton abruptly spit out, "she kept asking me about pokeballs. The capture rate. I could do something with that, start a project to power our pokeballs up."

"Write it down," Petrel said, "sounds good to me. Here, it's easier to start with this second column..."

Under Petrel's guidance, Proton diligently began to fill out the form, his brow furrowed in concentration. Even though it was only single-sided, the amount of thought that had to go into this stupid thing was astounding; projected project length and funds requests, an abstract to describe it and its potential uses for the organization. He got really into it; there were certain technical terms and phrases that Petrel made him edit out, and once that was done, Petrel had him write out a new, clean, finished copy -- and then again, when Proton had accidentally smudged that one. When he ws finally finished, it had been hours, and he was eager to return to Giovanni with his proposal. Petrel, of course, went with him.

"Be professional," Petrel advised, "don't slouch like you did this morning. Stand up straight. We're supposed to be the best Master Giovanni has, so act like it."

"I get it," Proton groused as they approached the heavy wooden door to Giovanni's office, "I'll be fine. Stop breathing down my neck."

"Hey, listen, before you go," Petrel continued as though he wasn't listening, "that guy Master Giovanni wanted you to make an example of, do you mind if I take care of that for you?"

"What?" Proton asked, "why?"

Matori, who was seated at her desk as usual, cut inti their conversation. "He's ready for you, Executive," she said.

"C'mon, please?" Petrel pressed, and Proton waved him off as he rolled his eyes.

"Fine, whatever."

"Executive, he's waiting."

Proton cursed under his breath and pushed on through the doors. Giovanni was sitting as his desk, drumming his fingers on the wood as his thousand-yard stare bored into the wall. There was the faintest of handprints on his cheek, and Proton couldn't help but stare, himself. He wondered if Ariana was okay. Quietly, he took the familiar seat in front of the desk and waited for his permission to speak. It was just like the interviews. At the very least, he hoped this time he wouldn't have to kill anyone just to get his project started.

"Well," Giovanni eventually said, "I don't have all day."

"Sir," Proton quickly replied, "I have my project proposal for you. I've decided to-"

"Let me see," his boss interjected. Proton handed his paper across the desk, and Giovanni studied it intently.

"A perfect capture rate," he mused, "and you believe it's possible?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Very well. I want your proof of concept by next week. Your funding will be released to you, then." Giovanni stowed the project proposal safely in his desk drawer and dismissed Proton with a vague wave of the hand. Proton didn't move.

"Sir, before I go, I just wanted to ask--"

"Is there something on my face, Executive?" Giovanni was looking at him again, cold fury burning in his eyes. Proton's attention flickered again to the faint handprint on Giovanni's cheek.

"I..."

"Because you've been _staring_ at me like there was since you came in," Giovanni continued over him. "Well? _Spit it out._ "

"No," Proton said, "no, sir. I just... has questions about my check."

Giovanni eyed him darkly for a moment longer, and Proton could feel the shiver crawling up his spine like a rabid rattata. He swallowed hard. Giovanni smirked humorlessly.

"Ah, yes," he mused, "yes, I've been meaning to discuss that with you, as well. Tell me, Executive, don't you find it _bothersome_ having to worry about money all the time?"

"I guess," Proton answered, "can't be helped, though, can it? I have bills to pay."

"Yes, I know the rehab center your mother is in," Giovanni agreed, "it's quite expensive for you, eh? I would imagine you'd enjoy not having to worry about affording it."

"Yes, sir. Not to be rude, but I'm hopin' this promotion came with a nice raise." Proton offered his boss a strained smile. Giovanni smiled in return, just as humorless. Somehow, Proton felt he shouldn't be getting his hopes up. Giovanni leaned forward over his desk, steepling his fingers.

"Well, then, Mr. Di Mercurio," he said, "let's make a deal. If you were to... _reject future pay_... I am prepared to foot your expenses. Your mother taken care of, whatever debts you have paid. And, of course, any future needs -- food, clothes, what have you."

He wasn't serious, was he? Wide-eyed, Protom stared as though Giovanni had grown an entire extra head. Maybe Proton wasn't the real estate mogul here, maybe he hadn't built a multi-million entertainment business, maybe he wasn't the one with a multi-national criminal syndicate at his beck and call, but he wasn't an idiot. He understood enough to be unnerved.

"I think I'd rather just have the check, sir," he said quietly. It was the wrong answer. It was always the wrong answer. You don't just say "no" to _Giovanni Sakaki_ , of all people.

"Very well," Giovanni replied. He whipped out his check book and handwrote his payment on a stub, signing it clearly before sliding it across the table. Proton took it, his eyes immediately seeking the numbers; it was almost a quarter more than he'd been making. That would certainly take some of the edge off.

"Thanks, Boss," he said, "this'll do me. I'll have the stuff for the project in soon."

Proton quickly stood and bowed himself out of the room, all the while feeling Giovanni's fury piercing into his back.


End file.
